Dancing In The Dark
by jaxon22
Summary: "You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark. This gun's for hire even if we're just dancing in the dark." Immersed in a world of dance, drink, drugs, and women, Edward Cullen is the ultimate bachelor. Until he receives a late night phone call that changes everything. AH E/B
1. Prologue

**Dancing In The Dark**

**Prologue**

There's a loud ringing.

It's _really_ fucking shrill, like bells clanging inside my head, and it's damned persistent.

For one euphoric moment, I think I'm still at the club, the beat of the music throbbing erotically through my body, but the pillow squashed carelessly under my cheek is a dead giveaway.

I'm in bed.

I lift my head gingerly. Gingerly because, the throbbing is no longer erotic, and it hurts to even fucking breathe—it's been a crazy night—and because I don't want to wake the curvaceous blonde lying to my right.

I turn my head.

Or the brunette to my left. _Damn. _

The phone continues its incessant ringing, piercing my brain with white hot needles. I narrow my eyes and look across my bedroom to the window. It's still dark for Christ's sake, and unless someone is dead or dying, the caller is going to get the sharp edge of my tongue.

I crawl over blondie—Mandy? Mary?—and trip over the edge of the sheet.

I curse as I hit the floor, ass first, and the two girls grumble and shift across my bed. The room rotates horrifically as I struggle to my feet.

Stumbling, naked, and rubbing the back of my neck, I make it to the phone and lift the handset.

"Yeah?" I grunt before I begin to cough.

If it's Emmett and one of his _joke calls_, I'll flip my shit.

"Is this Mr Cullen?"

I pause. I don't know the voice, but it sounds worryingly business-like.

"Yeah," I say again, flicking on the living room light and cursing some more as the light throws daggers into my eyes. "Who is this?"

"I'm Doctor Angela Weber from Seattle General Hospital. I'm sorry to call so late."

My heart stops, and I become startlingly sober. I swallow hard.

"It's fine," I manage. My tongue fights with the words, pushing them out quickly in alarm.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

The doctor sighs, and my stomach turns. "Can you please come to the hospital, Mr Cullen."

It's not a question.

I lean against the wall, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to remember how to breathe.

Not Alice. Please, God, _not _Alice.

"What's happened?" I repeat.

"Your name was given to me by my patient."

"Your patient?"

"Yes. I can explain more when you get here."

I know she's doing her job. I know she's following protocol, but protocol can suck my dick.

"Listen, Doc," I say as calmly as I can. "_You_ called _me_. Tell me what the fuck is going on! Is it my sister?"

There's a beat of silence before a breath. "No," she answers. "My patient's name is Leah Dwyer."

I open my eyes slowly and frown. The name rings a far off distant bell. It has blonde hair and blue eyes and moves like a siren on the dance floor.

"Leah Dwyer?"

"Yes. She gave us your name before…" The line goes quiet.

Why the hell would she give them _my_ name?

I huff, aggravated, and rub a hand down my face. "Before what?"

"Mr Cullen." Doctor Weber sighs. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but Ms Dwyer passed away tonight."

I nod my head. I kinda knew that was coming. I recoil when I think back to my reaction to the ringing phone, and I feel like shit because, well, any life taken prematurely is awful, devastating for the family, but also because the relief that it's not Alice or one of the kids is overwhelming enough to make my lungs squeeze in on themselves.

I'll deal with the guilt later.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say honestly. "But I'm still a little confused as to why you called me."

"It's a little complicated," Doctor Weber continues. "But it is very important that you get here."

I groan and drop my head against the wall. "Why? I barely knew the girl. Why aren't you calling her family?"

"We have," she answers. "Her sister is currently in England, but we're struggling to get hold of her. My staff is still trying. Ms Dwyer gave us your number and name specifically, Mr Cullen."

The way she emphasises the word specifically makes my hackles rise ever so slightly.

I draw in a breath and exhale it down my nose. "Okay," I mutter in confused defeat. "I'll be there in a half hour."

I must be out of my damned mind.

Her tone softens. "Thank you."

"Yeah," I grumble. I feel like ass for being so dismissive, but the whole conversation is surreal.

"Doctor," I say before she hangs up.

"Yes?"

I pause and drop my chin to my chest, as the morbidly curious motherfucker inside of me rears its ugly head. "How did she die?"

There is a split second before the world tilts on its axis and the ground falls away around me as her answer comes quickly and quietly, "Complications during child birth."

**Holy here we go again, Batman.**

**Much love to Purelyamuse for being so wonderful and for helping make this fic so much shinier and less 'feely'.**

**Follow me on twitter sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	2. Chapter 1

**Dancing In The Dark**

**Chapter One**

**Wages of sin, yeah, I keep paying**

**Wages of sin, for some wrong that I've done**

**Wages of sin, well, I keep paying**

**Wages of sin, one by one**

I hurry the girls out of the apartment, ignoring their colourful words and bitch brows. They got what they wanted, so I don't understand their anger. Fucking women. I throw on some clothes; fumble for my keys and wallet, staggering out of the door with a can of Red Bull welded to my hand. I hate the stuff, but I need a pick me up if I'm to deal with whatever the fuck is going on.

_Complications during childbirth._

My brain replays and analyses each word separately and together, repeatedly. It knows that there is only one conclusion that that information results in, but I refuse to consider anything until I have spoken to the doctor face to face.

"I'm careful," I mutter to myself as I walk down the stairs of my building. "I'm always fucking careful."

It's true. I always am. My dick is always wrapped the fuck up before it goes anywhere near a woman. _Never_ have I been drunk enough not to remember that shit. I'm not stupid. No. There is another reason why she called me. The three words Doctor Weber uttered were simply a tragic coincidence.

_Yeah. That's it._

I repeat those three words to myself as I make my way outside.

I get a cab to the hospital because, despite _feeling_ sober, I know that my ass is far from it, and I can't risk losing my licence. With no licence, I would have no jobs, and that would suck serious ass.

It's five in the morning when I reach the hospital. My back tenses up before I even walk through the doorway. It's been a long time since I've seen the inside of Seattle General, and the memories are anything but pleasant. I hate hospitals. I hate their smell - all disinfectant- and ill health.

Hospitals are where people suffer. Hospitals are where people die.

I pull my beanie further down my forehead, wishing to Christ that I'd brought my music to calm me, and shuffle inside. It's quiet. I glance down the hallway. Doctors and nurses chat and read their clipboards. It bothers me that they aren't doing something more productive. They're meant to be saving lives, but they simply stand about doing fuck all.

A man wearing stripy pyjamas limps past me, and I follow him with my eyes as I make my way to the reception desk.

The large woman behind it cocks an eyebrow when she looks up from her computer.

She's already formed an opinion of me. They always do.

I know I still have glitter on my face from the club, smeared eyeliner (it was Halloween night), and the smell of booze and sex is radiating from beneath my clothes. Whatever. At least my tattoos are covered; otherwise, she'd _really_ have a reason to stare. I debate whether to stick my tongue out to show her the silver stud in the middle of it, but decide not to. The ones in my ears are more than enough to tease her.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

I nod and tell her that Doctor Angela Weber has asked me to come in. I rock backwards and forwards on my heels. My anxiety rises further, when, after speaking to the doctor on the phone, she tells me that I have to go to the third floor.

Ordinarily, I would take the time to run up the stairs, but my legs are leaden, and my hangover is mocking the edges of my brain. Elevator it is. The doors close, and I take a minute to try to regroup. I rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers and think back to the night I met Leah Dwyer.

It was a Friday. I was working. She was an attractive girl in a white dress. I vaguely remember she was a student, although what the fuck she was studying, God alone knows. We drank and danced. Well, I danced, and she watched. She paid well. We drank some more and ended up back at my place.

We fucked. On my couch.

Weirdly, I remember she had a birthmark under her left breast. It fascinated me at the time. She laughed every time I licked it. Yeah, she was a nice girl.

The guilt of my relief and dismissiveness returns with a vengeance. She was someone's daughter, friend, sister, lover, and _I _was a shitty person for forgetting that. It was an awful thing to have happened to a girl so young and full of life. It could so easily have been someone I loved or cared about. I notice my rumpled, weary reflection in the metal of the elevator and scowl at myself. I'm a disgrace. I'm a fucked up mess, and I'm ashamed.

The elevator bell draws me from my remorse and self-torture, and I step out, trying like hell to ignore the fact that I'm on a maternity ward. It's hard, though. Soft baby cries filter down the corridor making my stomach roll with nausea. I try to breathe through my nose in an attempt to curb it.

It's not that I don't like kids. I do. My sister has two. I fucking love them, but part of their appeal is that I can give them back when they annoy me or I get bored. I'm not the fatherly type by any stretch. I can barely look after myself for fuck's sake!

The baby crying gets louder. It becomes more of a screech. My ears want to detach from the sides of my head and run away.

_Complications during childbirth._

"I'm careful," I whisper as sweat breaks out on my forehead. My eyes flicker around the corridor, unable to find anything to take my mind off the shit dump of a situation I have found myself. "I'm always fucking careful."

I jump like a bitch when a small hand touches my forearm, and I swallow back the whelp of surprise.

I need to get a grip. Quickly.

"Mr Cullen?"

I look down at a little woman with short black hair and even darker eyes. She has a large mouth filled with perfect teeth that seem to shine under the fluorescents. Her smile is genuine, but it falters at the edges, worn from all the shitty things she has seen during her time as a doctor. At least that's what I imagine.

"Uh, yeah," I stammer, blinking.

She holds out her hand, and I shake it. Her fingers are cold against my burning skin. "I'm Doctor Weber," she says and gestures with her free hand towards a door. "Won't you come with me?"

I nod. "Sure."

I follow blindly, fisting my hands in my pockets, keeping my head down, trying to move my feet. It's difficult. I feel weighted, as if I'm trudging through wet sand. The will is there, but my body simply won't cooperate. Every step is a huge undertaking, and I become breathless.

My chest relaxes as we leave the area and its clamour of baby noises. When the door closes behind me, I exhale a shuddering breath. I close my eyes, trying like hell to keep it together. Dread pumps through my veins, and the whispers of alarm tease at my neck. I swallow down the vomit that is edging its way up my throat.

I open my eyes again, blink them into focus, and look around.

Dr Weber's office is nice, homey. It smells of furniture polish and cherries. The dimmed light makes it relaxing, and there are a thousand pictures on the wall behind her impressively large desk. Each one is of either a couple with a baby or a baby on its own. There are thank you cards and wooden _'Best Doctor'_ frames on three dark wood shelves surrounded by drawings created by toddler hands.

Those I like. I like their colours and the abandon with which they produce their innocent art.

I sit without permission - which is rude, I know - but my legs are about ready to give up on me. I try to look nonchalant, but the expression on the doctor's face tells me that I fail entirely. I cough a nervous laugh and rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Not at all." I breathe out loudly and look around.

Let's get this shit over with. I clear my throat. "Why am I here?"

She leans her elbows on the desk and clasps her hands together. She develops the sheen of sympathy in her eyes that only doctors get when they are about to give bad news. I've seen it before; it's terrifying. My hands clutch the arms of the chair I'm sitting in. I desperately need to feel anchored to something. The sensation of drifting away is creeping ever closer.

"Ms Dwyer was admitted two days ago with preeclampsia," she explains.

My blank stare must say it all as she continues. "Her blood pressure was ridiculously high, so I insisted she stay."

Ah, those words I understand. "Okay." I nod again and glance hopelessly at the door.

"She wasn't due for another five weeks, but she went into labour yesterday afternoon."

I make a sound that almost comes off as an affirmative response, but I have no idea if it is. I pull my beanie from my head, because my skull feels like a fucking inferno and run my fingers through my hair. It's sticky with sweat, gel, and hairspray. My hand comes away sparkling with glitter. Doctor Weber's voice slowly comes back to my ears.

"Unfortunately, during the late stages of her labour," she says gently, "Ms Dwyer's blood started to clot. It clotted far too quickly. We administered Warfarin, but we were unable to stop it in time. One of the clots came loose and entered her heart. She went into cardiac arrest and was pronounced dead a half hour later."

I take it all in, feeling genuinely devastated for the poor girl and her family. "That's fucking terrible," I mutter. I close my eyes for a moment and lick my lips, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," Doctor Weber replies, and I can see that she, too, is sincerely sorry for the loss of her patient.

A strange silence fills the room. I realise that it's a moment of reflection for the life lost, and, strangely, it's not uncomfortable. I let it rest on me for a second before I speak again.

"I didn't know Leah that well," I confess. I chuckle in embarrassment. "Actually, I met her once. She seemed really cool."

Doctor Weber smiles wryly. "Yes, she mentioned you a couple of times."

I blink in surprise. "I can't understand why. Like I said, we met_ once_. Why would she tell you about me?"

The words leave my mouth, and the atmosphere in the room suddenly becomes oppressively heavy. It presses down on me, pushing my head closer to my chest, and my lungs battle to take in enough air to keep my body conscious. My heart beat thunders in my ears, and black spots start to speckle my vision. A drop of sweat falls down my temple, and I wipe at it with an uncooperative hand.

I continue to stare at the doctor across her mammoth desk, waiting for an answer, trying to ignore the spindly fingers of terror that are creeping up my back and clasping tightly around my throat.

She stares right back. Silent. Her eyes tell me everything. They confirm what I already knew, but continued to deny, and, all at once, I'm falling.

A weird gasping sound escapes from between my lips, and I lean forward, as the room begins to spin.

"Oh, Jesus," I moan.

A trashcan is thrust under my face just in time to catch the vomit that spews unforgivingly from my mouth. I heave, cough, and will myself to wake up. _Jesus_. This _has_ to be a nightmare. It has to be or a surreal dream at the very least.

I shake my head and mumble words that don't make any sense. I can't form a coherent thought let alone a sentence. I gasp, feeling suffocated. I pull at the collar of my t-shirt, willing the oxygen in.

I can't…It can't be true. I can't be a…

"Father?"

I blink back the tears brought up from my being sick and look at Doctor Weber, who is crouched at my side, rubbing my back lightly. She nods slowly with sympathetic eyes.

"Ms Dwyer told us that the baby is yours, Mr Cullen." She all but whispers, as though she knows that I can only take the words quietly.

"But, I'm always fucking careful," I protest weakly, hugging the trashcan to my chest. My body's heavy and so fucking tired.

"Accidents happen," she replies.

Yeah. No shit.

"How?" I gasp. "How can…I mean, I can't…"

She rubs my back a little harder. "Try to breathe slower," she offers unhelpfully.

I heave again and clench my eyes shut. My head pounds and my hands shake

What the fuck? I met the girl _once_.

Once!

I try to remember when it was and try to figure out the math. Was it nine months ago? Maybe it was February? Would that add up? Doc said the labour was early. _Shit_. My chin hits my chest, as I will myself to remember. But I can't. Nights at the club all merge into one loud, thumping, strobe lighted jumble of heat and flesh.

The faces of nameless women come and go.

I'm not proud. It just is.

I'm also not a prick.

It just sounds that way.

My mind continues to reel, and the shaking begins to move from my hands to my legs. They bounce and jerk as the panic clutches them. _Shit_. I can't remember. All I see is blonde hair and a birthmark. I bent her over my couch.

Yeah, maybe I _am_ a prick.

"Maybe it's not mine," I state quickly, barely thinking about what I'm saying before the words are out there.

I'm momentarily appalled at myself for the tinge of hope in my voice, but I continue regardless. "You know, we were only together once."

The doctor nods again. I try to ignore the flash of irritation in her eyes. "You are well within your rights to ask for a paternity test," she whispers. "I can arrange that for you, if you want?"

The question hangs between us, and I blink in acquiescence. A paternity test. Yeah. That might be my light in this dark, shitty, God awful mess.

Doctor Weber stands, leaving me clutching my trashcan like a fucking lifejacket, and picks up the phone. I listen to her as she quietly arranges the test, telling whoever it is at the end of the line to 'swab Baby D'. My chest tightens when I hear the name.

"Baby D?" I ask when she puts the phone down.

She pushes her hands into the pockets of her white coat and smiles sadly. "Ms Dwyer passed away before she could name the baby. We named her 'Baby D'. It's unimaginative, but it suits her."

And suddenly _'it'_ becomes a _'her'_.

I gulp. "Her," I croak. "It's a girl?"

"Yes," she answers. "She's very beautiful, but very small. She's currently on the NICU in an incubator."

"Is she ill?"

I'm uneasy again.

"No, she's alright. However, she was five weeks early. Her lungs just need a little encouragement. She'll be on oxygen and monitored closely by our best paediatricians until she's fit to go home."

Home. The word echoes ceaselessly between my ears. And where the hell will _that_ be? My place? I can't have a baby in my place. The thought is almost funny. A bachelor pad filled with diapers and pacifiers? Really?

I place the trashcan between my feet and drop back in the chair, putting my hands to my face.

I hear her heels click across the floor towards me. "The nurse will be up soon with the kit for your test," she says. "I've got a couple of rounds to do. Before that, how about I get you some coffee?"

I drop my hands to my thighs and laugh humourlessly. "Sure," I reply, "Why not? It's not like I'm going to be getting any sleep any time soon."

Doctor Weber snorts. "Yeah," she agrees as she walks towards the door. "You don't know how true that'll be if that test comes back positive."

**Holy guyliner, Batman!**

**I have loved the names many have given to this Edward. Slutward, Whoreward and PrePeachesPawward have been my favourites.**

**I have, for now, named this Edward, Magicward.**

**All will become clear.**

**Thanks again to the amazing Purelyamuse who makes my writing sparkle like glitter.**

**Chapter Two will be up this weekend and then every week then on (RL depending).**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	3. Chapter 2

**Dancing In The Dark**

**Chapter Two**

**I was bruised and battered and I couldn't tell **

**What I felt **

**I was unrecognizable to myself**

**Coda_ - The concluding section of a dance, esp. of a pas de deux or the finale of a ballet in which the dancers parade before the audience._**

I hold the piece of paper in my hand and stare at it. I stare, and I breathe.

Well, I try to.

99.9%

The number may seem small on the page, but it's fucking monumental.

I've been sitting in Doctor Weber's office for five hours. She hasn't asked me to leave yet. She handed me the results and all but ran out of the door. I rather appreciated that she refrained from dancing around me singing _'I told you so'_. She has checked on me twice, peeking around the door to see whether I've died of shock. She hasn't said anything.

But then, what is there to say?

At least my stomach has quit upchucking. And, fuck, if I'm not the soberest I've ever been in my life. Nurses keep bringing me coffee, which has helped, even if it tastes like donkey ass or at least what I imagine it does. Nonetheless, it's better than the taste of stale vomit.

I take one last look at the paper and fold it slowly, keeping my eyes on the floor, as if the answer is sewn into the fabric of the fucking carpet.

What the hell am I meant to do now? What the hell does this mean for me? I know I'm being entirely selfish, but I can't even begin to think about . . . the baby.

_Christ._ With a long exhale, I stand up and shuffle across the office to the door. My whole body hurts, and my head still feels as if it is stuffed full of cotton wool. As my hand touches the handle, it opens, and Doctor Weber walks in.

"Oh," she says in surprise, taking a step back. "You're up."

"Yeah," I mumble, pulling my beanie back on. "I . . . um, I need to go home."

She cocks an eyebrow, chastising me for being the bastard I know I am.

"I'll be back," I say, not knowing when or if I even mean it. "I just need to, you know, think. Shower. Maybe sleep."

She smiles slightly and moves from the doorway.

I push my hands into my pockets and all but toe the floor. My embarrassment annoys me, but I can't seem to help but fidget under her stare. She knows I'm a chicken shit, and it stings.

But, fuck, I just _need_ a damned minute.

"Here's my card," she says as she hands it to me. "I finish in a couple of hours, but I'll be back here tonight."

I smile tightly. "Thanks."

I move to walk away, but her voice stops me. "Edward."

My lungs deflate, and I turn slowly, grudgingly, "Yeah?"

"There are a few options for you here, and all of them will take a lot of consideration. But I think you need to at least give it a chance." She lifts and drops her shoulders. "You never know, you might surprise yourself." She glances down the corridor to the sign that directs to the NICU, "And her."

I clench my teeth and lift my chin in response. Her words are weighty as fuck. Along with the news and the expectation on me, it's already like I'm on my knees. I wave her card between my fingers. "Thanks again."

"Sure."

I drag myself to the elevator but change my mind at the last moment and head for the stairs. Before I go through the doors, however, I look back at the NICU sign and clear my throat. The sign points to something so terrifyingly alien to me, so horrifically life altering that I can barely comprehend it.

Not yet, I think to myself. I'm not ready yet.

I push through the door and sprint down the stairs. I hit the bottom and call a cab.

There's only one place I need to be right now.

=DITD=

The headstones at the cemetery seem to stretch for miles. Commemorative statues and plaques punctuate the landscape, under the first signs of fall. Knowing my way, even with my eyes closed, I head to the third headstone on the East side of the footpath and immediately feel a semblance of normality. I crouch down and push away the small amount of red and gold leaves that are lying on the stone, and I rearrange the blue flowers that Alice left last time she visited.

My mom loved blue.

"Hey, Momma," I whisper.

I place my hand on the gold leaf engraving of her name and close my eyes as I trace each letter. I feel close to her when I do this. It helps bring back memories—her smell—and the sound of her laugh. Sometimes, if I listen close enough, I swear I even hear her voice on the breeze.

"I'm sorry I haven't been for a while," I mutter. "I've been busy." I take my time, letting the words come slowly. "So . . . I fucked up."

The wind picks up a little, rustling the leaves that now lie around my feet. I shake my head, searching for the right words but come up wanting. I know that my Mom would have known what to do. She always knew what was best for us and did her damndest to make sure that we got it. She was firm but fair, never putting up with any of my bullshit. She always smelled of vanilla and was stunningly beautiful. But, inside, she was solid steel and strength.

They gave her a year, and she lasted three.

She was the bravest, most honest person I have ever known.

I miss her constantly, even after fifteen years - the pain of losing her never truly goes away - but, right now, I'd give anything to _really_ hear her voice. I know she'd have the right words, the right advice, and maybe a slap around the back of the head for my stupidity. I smile at a memory I have of her trying to slap me when I was thirteen and mad at everything. By that point, I towered over her, and she couldn't reach. She was so frail and weak from all the drugs they pumped into her to keep her alive that she could barely lift her hand.

I remember bending down just so that she could make contact. She laughed, and I cried.

"What do I do?" I whisper through a thick throat.

My exhaustion and the emotion of the last nine hours have seemingly caught up with me. My eyes prick with tears, but I fight like hell to keep that shit back. I'm only crying for myself, and my mother would have hated that.

She taught me better.

"I'm not ready," I confess. "How can I be responsible for . . . _anyone_?"

At twenty-nine years old, I feel like a pathetic, inexperienced kid. I'm tragic, and the shame of my behaviour makes my cheeks flame.

"Help me," I plead and place a kiss on the top of the stone. "Help me make this right."

I stand, say my silent goodbyes, and head towards my second home because, fuck, I need a damned hug.

=DITD=

"Uncle E'ward!"

I brace myself for the impact as my three-year-old nephew, James, throws himself at me when I walk through my sister's front door.

"Hey, buddy!" I cry enthusiastically even though my head is splintering from the inside out.

Truth be told, I adore my nephews and wouldn't deny them anything. They're the best people I know.

I lift him up and immediately start blowing loud raspberries on his soft, round stomach. Instantly, my mood improves. He squeals and kicks, but I know he loves it. It's our thing. I throw him over my right shoulder, gripping his ankles safely in my left hand and wander into the house, following the delicious, chocolaty smell of baked goods.

My mouth waters, and my stomach growls hungrily, realising it is empty.

"Hello?" my sister calls from the kitchen.

"Only me," I call back.

"Uncle E'ward, lemme down!"

I ignore James' protests while I walk to my sister. She places a tray of cookies on the side, and I kiss her gently on the cheek.

"Does this belong to you?" I ask, tickling my nephew's side.

She shakes her head and laughs before she takes a proper look at me. "Christ, you look like shit," she says bluntly.

"Shit," James echoes.

I frown at my sister while fighting a smile, pull James up, and put him back on the floor, giving his hair a ruffle for good measure. He rearranges his sweater and takes off out of the room at break neck speed.

The energy kids have is ridiculous.

"Thanks for that. You look great too," I reply sarcastically with a wink and a click of my tongue. I drop down into a chair and pull my beanie off. I drop my forehead to the table and exhale with a groan.

"Have you even_ been_ to bed?" Alice asks, not even trying to hide her judgemental tone.

"Not to sleep," I reply.

She groans in disapproval and clangs around the room a little louder, "Coffee?"

"God, no," I reply. "No more coffee."

"Jesus, this must be bad," she mutters, "Juice?"

"Perfect."

I keep my head on the table and listen to my sister move about the kitchen. She's such a domestic goddess, and she loves it. It suits her.

"James," she calls through the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"I'm playing cars, Momma."

"Okay, you can come for a cookie in a little while."

A bang that sounds like a toy car being thrown at a wall echoes through the house. "When?"

"One SpongeBob," she clarifies.

I smile. Only my sister would use a cartoon to clarify times to her kids.

She drops the glass of juice by my head and sits down across from me. "We're good for at least fifteen," she says firmly. "Spill."

I take a sip of juice before dropping my head back onto the cool table. I hold my breath and close my eyes. Here we go.

"I have a baby, Alice," I mutter it into the wood like the coward I am. It's the first time I've acknowledged the news aloud, and the words are huge and bizarre in my ears.

Not bad exactly, just . . . bizarre.

The kitchen is silent. In fact, the silence stretches on for so long that I lift my head up to see if she's still breathing. What I see, however, shocks the shit out of me. Alice is smiling, a wide condescending, sanctimonious smile that sets my teeth on edge. She's smiling with her arms crossed over her chest in a gesture that reminds me so much of our mother, it makes me shiver.

"What?" I snap after an age of her saying absolutely nothing. "What the fuck are you smiling about?"

She shakes her head slowly, while keeping her eyes on me. "I knew it would happen one day, Coda. Law of averages says that you'd knock one of your skanks up sooner or later."

I roll my eyes and slump back in my seat like a petulant child. Her nonchalant use of my nickname also grates on my nerves. It's condescending and it riles me the fuck up. "That's so not what I need to hear right now," I snap.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks sassily. "Congratulations?"

"No," I spit. "I need you to tell me what the fuck I'm meant to do."

She blinks as though I just asked her the simplest question in the world and shakes her head.

"What do you mean?" She leans forward. Her eyes are hard and serious. Despite her initial self-righteous reaction, I can see the disappointment in them, and it's a bitter pill to swallow. I don't want her to be disappointed in me.

"You step up and help the damned girl out,Coda," she bites back. "You don't want a relationship, fine, but you have to take responsibility. Be a man." She shakes her head. "You're lucky it's a baby and not a venereal disease!"

I lick my lips and look down at my hands on my lap. She's right. Not about the disease shit, but the rest of it? Yeah. I know she's right. Of course, she's right. My baby sister is _always_ right.

"It's not that simple," I say quietly. My head thumps some more, and my throat is arid in spite of the juice I've almost finished.

Alice shrugs, not understanding, "How so?"

"The girl," I answer, rubbing a hand down the side of my face, " The girl who was pregnant—Leah—she died."

Alice sucks in a breath and clasps a hand to her mouth. James chooses this moment to come barrelling back into the kitchen. He has one shoe and one sock missing, and he's changed his sweater to an _Iron Man_ t-shirt that he has on backwards. It's cool as hell, and I want it.

"How long, Momma?" he asks at the side of the table as he bounces on his tiptoes. He taps his small fingers against Alice's forearm in order to get her attention, but her eyes are wide and fixed on me.

"Ten more minutes, baby," she answers without turning to him, and he runs away again.

"She died?" Alice asks. Her face is now softer, filled with sympathy for a girl she didn't even know. Christ, _I_ barely knew her. "How?"

I try my best to explain what Doctor Weber told me about how Leah passed away. I stumble over the medical jargon she threw at me, not because I can't remember, but because the more I think about it - the situation - the more desperately terrified I feel. As the words leave me, the reality of the situation starts to weigh even heavier. My spine is made of jello. I'm hot again, and my skin itches. Stifling. I unzip my hoodie and shrug out of it ungracefully.

As I do, I catch the odour of the two girls I kicked out of my apartment and the underlying scent of alcohol and sweat from the night before at work. It stinks. It makes me feel filthy and fidgety. I don't smell like a father, and I sure as shit don't behave like one. I grab at my hair and clench my eyes shut. I want to cry again, and I hate myself for it. I'm weak and pathetic, and it makes me livid. I am furious with myself.

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

My palms grow damp on my knees, which are jumping like jack-rabbits.

"How the fuck did this happen, Alice?" I ask through a throat that is closing fast. "I mean, what the fuck am I meant to do?"

I put my hands to my face and drop my elbows to the table unable to hold the tears of fear and anger back any longer. Seconds later, Alice's small arm wraps around my shoulders. She squeezes me, and her free hand skims through my hair just as she used to do when we were kids.

"It's okay," she soothes, kissing my temple. "We'll fix it. We'll sort this,Coda. It's okay."

**Holy bless his socks, Batman!**

**I have been overwhelmed by the support you have shown this fic. Thank you.**

**As this is a short chapter, I will update again before Friday.**

**Thanks, love, and hugs to Purelyamuse who helps me in my daily battle against commas.**

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**TTFN x x x**


	4. Chapter 3

**Dancing In The Dark**

**Chapter 3**

**You walk cool, but darlin', can you walk the line**

**And face the ties that bind**

**The ties that bind**

**Now you can't break the ties that bind **

Alice's husband, Jasper, agrees to come home from work early. He's awesome like that.

As well as being my brother in law, he's my part time boss. He owns his own construction company and when I'm not working at the club, I help him out when he's short of hands. Alice relays our conversation to him in hushed tones over the phone while I try to collect myself from the tatters left around my ankles. I have a shower and borrow a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt from Jasper's diverse collection. I'm not sure _ACDC_ is my style, but whatever.

I have to admit, being clean is rejuvenating. I gulp a strong coffee, sit on the floor, and play cars with James while we wait for Jasper to arrive. I even manage to eat a sandwich, much to Alice's delight.

When Jasper walks in the house, around ninety minutes later with their eldest son, William, his face says it all. He's sorry for me. I try not to let it bother me too much-but I can't lie-I want to punch the fuck out of something. I don't want his pity. I want an answer. I want to know how the fuck I'm meant to deal with everything that has transpired in the last twelve hours.

I give him a sharp nod, but I avoid eye contact. I can't handle his empathy right now.

The thing is, regardless of the situation, Jasper has this way about him that makes people open up and talk about their problems. Alice calls it his gift. Me? I just find it fucking weird. He stands there while people cry about shit going on in their lives, opening up about their marriages, children, affairs, money, and he simply stands and listens. He doesn't necessarily give advice. He just nods and comforts. I suppose some people need a shoulder to cry on occasionally. To Jasper's credit, it doesn't seem to faze him.

Right now, though, I don't want to talk. I want to figure out what the hell I'm doing.

Meanwhile, Alice is flitting around like a damned flea. Despite my colourful protests, and because she can't take no for an answer, she has called the hospital and spoken to Doctor Weber's secretary. Twice. She's back on shift in an hour, and Alice wants us to go and speak to her.

I don't.

I'm a bastard, I know, but I don't want to go back there. I want to pretend as if the entire sorry situation is a nightmarish hoax. I continually find myself staring into space, my brain whirring and spinning, having no clue what to think, wishing to God that the hospital would call, telling me that they have made a huge mistake, that it was a different Edward Cullen, a different Leah Dwyer, another . . . baby.

It doesn't happen, of course.

I finger the sheet of paper in my pocket, and it burns my skin.

99.9%.

_Fuck._

"William, you're allowed a piece of fruit or nothing at all!" Alice shouts after William as he runs full tilt into the kitchen for an afternoon snack. He's six, and he eats more than I do.

"But Mom!"

"No buts, William Jasper Whitlock!" Alice retorts, grabbing her coat and bag from the cupboard under the stairs. My heart drops into my stomach. I look at the clock. It's time.

Alice points towards the kitchen. "Make sure he doesn't eat anything crappy," she tells Jasper, who nods and gives a small salute.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replies and smiles gently at me.

I try to return it, but my mouth is fake and hard on my face. It's out of place, awkward. I'm never awkward. I _hate_ awkward. I sigh and rub the back of my neck with the palm of my hand. I'm not myself at all. I'm discombobulated and put together wrong, and I detest it.

James runs to me as I make my way across the sitting room and wraps himself around my leg. His blonde head comes up to my knee. I look down at him, and, this time, my smile is a lot more genuine.

"Bye, Uncle E'ward," he mumbles into the denim, giving me a small kiss on my kneecap.

"Adios, my man," I say, bending down and holding my hand out for him to give me a five. He does and grins. "Stay cool."

He wrinkles his small nose and frowns. "I'm cool?"

I widen my eyes in mock shock. "Pffft, are you kidding? You're _way_ cool. You have an Iron Man t-shirt, dude."

His grin stretches wide across his face. He's cute as fuck. He spins on the balls of his feet, and, with arms out wide like a plane, he takes off towards the stairs.

"Daddy, I cool!" he shouts, making Jasper chuckle. "I'm Eine Man!"

"You certainly are," Jasper replies with a shake of his head.

I see Jasper's eyes are on James as he leaps around and flexes his muscles just like Iron Man. Jasper grips his son's tiny bicep, grunting approvingly. There is nothing but love and adoration in his eyes. His whole face shines with it. His pride is tangible. Jasper _is_ a father. He was _made_ to be a father. He does it, and he rocks it. He's steadfast, caring, and he looks after his wife and his sons as though his life depended on it. Of course, I'd kill him if he didn't, but he puts them first and loves them unconditionally. He makes it look easy, and I know it's not.

I could never do that. I'm just not..._that_ guy.

"Come on." Alice chides me and pushes me towards the door. I try to resist, but she's strangely strong for such a small person.

"I can't do this, Alice," I mumble towards the ground when we get out of the door. "I can't—I-I'm not made to..."

She huffs in annoyance and places a hand firmly on her hip. "Listen, Coda," she snaps, all trace of sympathy and understanding gone. "You need to stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself and start thinking about that little girl."

She points in the general direction of the hospital, and shame the weight of a Mack truck careens into my chest.

"You have a daughter," she says slowly, quietly. I watch her mouth move as it forms the word, but I still can't seem to comprehend it. "A real live person who is going to depend on you for everything," she continues. "She is helpless. You're not. Now stop acting like a pussy and get in the damned car."

I swallow my protests, which would only have been met by my sister's back, and follow her like a misbehaved child, dragging my fucking feet, and wallowing in a sea of self-pity. It's seconds from overtaking me completely. I'm barely treading it.

Christ, I'm drowning.

I get into the car, and, after I've fastened my seat belt, I lean my elbow against the window and place my hand over my face, closing my eyes. I hear the word _daughter_ rattle its way around my head. It's colossal and hard, razor sharp around the edges. It teases the back of my tongue, but is stopped by the panic lodged there. It makes its way to my lungs, which squeeze, and then it tiptoes around my heart. It prods and pokes relentlessly, making it thump harder, more erratic.

It is there, that, after half of our journey, it settles like a drape, heavy and alien. I rub the ball of my hand over it and sigh. I feel branded. The eight letters etch themselves into my flesh, to scar and stay for all time, while the two syllables echo through me with each resounding, unforgiving beat.

_Daughter. Daughter_.

The truth of the matter is fucking petrifying, and it crushes me like a goddamn tsunami.

No matter what happens, I have a daughter.

_I have a daughter._

Whether or not I am ready for this, to do this, I have a daughter.

I could . . . walk away. Jesus, the very thought makes my skin prickle. Not that it matters because, if I did, if I took the pussy way out - just like _my_ father - she would _still_ be. She would still be _mine_. Until my dying day, she is mine, and that realisation pushes me deeper into my seat and hangs around my throat like a fucking anvil.

The car lot is half-empty when we get to the hospital. There is anxious hesitation in Alice's eyes as she pulls the handbrake up, once we find a space. She hates hospitals just as much as I do. Both of her children were born at home as a result of this. The memories are simply too hard, too upsetting. This is, however, how I know how important this is to her. She is willing to do this for me, with me, despite her hatred of all things medical.

She exhales and unclips her seat belt. "You ready?" she asks.

Her voice is tight, and it breaks my heart.

I dip my head. "Are you?"

She gives a wry smile. "I'm okay."

I nod and clear my throat. My feet are glued to the floor of the car. Alice places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It's a small gesture, but it helps ease the tumult of chaos that is taking place inside me.

"You can do this," she whispers fervently. "I _know_ you can."

I laugh without humour and grip my hair. "I'm fucking terrified, Al." I shake my head.

"I know, Coda, I know. But you have to try."

"I—I know," I stammer as I drop my head back against the seat. "I know I have to take responsibility. I know that she's mine to look after, but..." I close my eyes and shake my head in disgust. "I'm pathetic. I feel like a fucking monster. The thoughts I've had, Alice. I'm—I'm no father."

Alice shifts in her seat to face me. "Now listen to me, Edward Cullen." I look at her. "You underestimate yourself. You always do."

I roll my eyes. "How can I not? Look at what I do for a fucking living, Alice! Dammit! How am I meant to do this? Huh? I can't be like fucking Jasper." I slap my palms to my thighs in frustration.

She pauses. "And who's asking you to be?" she asks incredulously.

She clicks her tongue and tilts her head. "You think that the night William was born Jasper wasn't a fucking wreck, that he wasn't pacing, stressing, and driving me beyond distraction for almost eight months_ prior_ to that? The day I told him I was pregnant he went the colour of a shamrock – both times." She laughs. "You think he wasn't physically sick with worry and nerves when I went into labour?"

I cock an eyebrow at her in question, and she nods slowly.

"All over Mama Esme's cashmere sweater," she says.

I snort with laughter, and she smiles.

She puts her hand over mine and sighs. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy. It's far from it. But you have to think about that little girl. She has no one but you. She lost her mother."

She looks at me with eyes that glimmer with the understanding of loss, and a desolate ache creeps into my chest.

Being my sister, Alice senses this immediately. "You're not alone in this," she says. "We'll help you as much as we can every step of the way. I promise."

My breath shudders out of me. I'm an ass, and I don't deserve her being so nice. It doesn't stop me, however, from grabbing onto it unashamedly with both hands. "Thank you," I croak.

I unfold myself out of the car, cracking my knuckles and my back as I do and walk next to Alice with my hands in my pockets, head down. She grips the sleeve of my hoodie when we cross the doorway, and I look at her. I give her a small, reassuring smile and lead her to the elevator that I was in only hours before.

She takes deep breaths and fiddles with the clasp on her bag as the elevator rises. I know what she's feeling, and it's fucking horrible. It's a twisting in your stomach and dryness in your throat. It's the overwhelming fear that the doors of the elevator will open and a doctor will be standing there waiting to tell you that your mother has hours to live...

I rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers and follow Alice out of the elevator once it reaches the maternity floor. The sound of babies is all around us, but I gulp down the urge to run, and stand a little straighter. My heart thunders, but, unlike this morning, it twinges with something other than downright fear. It feels almost like anticipation?

Whatever it is, I'm just ecstatic I'm not a quivering fucking wreck.

We meet Doctor Weber in her office, and she is all smiles and laughter with Alice. Alice fawns over the pictures on her walls and coos over the drawings. Once seated, I watch and listen to the two of them talk, silent and waiting. The doctor glances at me as she speaks, and I note in her face that she's surprised to see me again. Not that I blame her. Why wouldn't she be surprised? Last time I saw her I was a mess. I am barely together now, but at least I look half-human.

"You said that she was on the NICU," I say. The words are out before I really register the need to say them.

Doctor Weber nods. "That's correct. Her lungs were a little underdeveloped, so she's in there as a precaution."

"Does that mean that . . . I can't see her?"

In my periphery, Alice's head swivels in my direction.

Doctor Weber sits back, and a small smile touches at the edges of her mouth. "Not at all. If you want to see her, I can certainly arrange that for you."

Alice stares at me intently. "You want to see her?"

I lick my lips and rub my sweating palms down my jeans. "Yeah, I—I think so." I look back at Doctor Weber. "Do I have to hold her?"

She shakes her head. "Not if you don't want to."

I give a short cough that's almost a laugh and run an uneasy hand through my hair. "I'm not sure I'm quite there yet."

And ain't _that_ the fucking truth. My request to see the baby is as much a surprise to me as it is to the two women sitting in front of me. It's not a desire so much as it is curiosity. Truthfully, I'm fascinated to see her, to see what she looks like.

"Can Alice come with me?"

Doctor Weber nods. "Sure."

"You want me there?" Alice barely hides the tone of excitement in her voice. She actually jumps a little in her seat.

"Of course, I do," I say with a roll of my eyes. "I need you there to hold my hand while I fuck this up." I look back at Doctor Weber. "Sorry, Doc."

She holds up her palms and shakes her head. "No worries. I'll go and speak to the paediatrician."

Doctor Weber leaves the room, and I exhale for what seems like the first time in hours. I sit forward in my seat with my elbows resting on my knees and try to breathe.

"I'm proud of you," Alice says softly at my side.

I glance at my sister and laugh humourlessly. "Don't be just yet," I warn her.

"One step at a time, Coda," she retorts reassuringly, and, for one brief second, I don't feel as heavy. "Who knows," she continues, "once you see her, it may be love at first sight."

I frown in confusion. "Love at first sight?" I ask incredulously. "Fuck's sake, it's a baby, not Scarlett Johansson!"

Alice drops back into her seat and groans in annoyance at the puzzled expression on my face. "'It' is a _she,_ and _she_ is your daughter. You love your children unconditionally. Believe me, you'll see."

Before I can ask her just what the fuck she is talking about, Doctor Weber comes back into her office. Another woman who has thickset shoulders and blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail follows her. Despite the severity of her appearance, her eyes are soft, and her mouth is fixed in a smile that is warm and holds no judgement. It's a relief to see.

"This is Nurse Foster," Doctor Weber says with a small wave of her hand between us. "She'll take you down to the NICU so that you can see your daughter."

Her words make my brain tilt slightly, but I manage to get to my feet and put one in front of the other to follow Nurse Foster out of the office and down the corridor. I give my thanks to Doctor Weber, and, with Alice at my side, we make our way towards the NICU.

"Doctor Weber tells me that this is your first."

The Nurse's voice echoes around the hallway, mingling with the sharp smacks of our shoes on the glossy floor. I look at her, and I blink in surprise. I nod too because my throat has suddenly closed shut. Alice touches my forearm, and the nurse catches it. She smiles back at me, knowingly, sympathetically, and I deflate under her gaze.

I swear my masculinity is disintegrating by the hour, and I'm fairly certain my cock has taken up residence_ inside_ my body. In truth, I don't blame it. It needs a time out for stupid behaviour.

The nurse uses the small card that is hanging around her neck to get us through a set of large doors and ushers us through. The NICU is less noisy than I imagined it to be. The hush of hospital quiet is intense around us. The smell is different too. It's fresher with an underlying baby smell, which isn't entirely unpleasant. She leads us to a small cubicle and asks us to wait for a moment.

"I have to ask you to put a blue gown over your clothes," Nurse Foster says as she holds two gowns towards us. "Just for hygiene."

"No problem," Alice answers, taking them from her, as I stand there like a fucking spare part, hopping uncomfortably from one foot to the other. My sister glares at my feet and shakes her head in exasperation. I shrug and take the blue gown that she hands me.

It's soft and see-through, and I'm not entirely sure what the fuck it does to make everything hygienic, but I don't argue. I pull it on, and Alice ties it at the back before I do the same to hers. We wash and sanitize our hands, and Nurse Foster, once again, leads us down the hallway. She stops in front of a door and turns to face us. There are windows on either side of her, but I don't move to look. I can't.

"Now, there is a lot of scary looking equipment in here," she says. "But I don't want you to worry. Baby is hooked up to some breathing apparatus, and she's in an incubator that monitors her progress." She smiles. "She's been doing perfectly so far."

I clear my throat and nod. Something that feels very much like relief whispers across my skin. "That's . . . um, that's good," I manage.

"Now, Doctor Weber said that you weren't sure whether you wanted to hold her or not."

I shake my head and push my hands into my pockets, as if their absence will make my guilt disappear.

"That's fine. If you do change your mind, however, tell one of the nurses, and they'll get her out of the incubator for you. It's the safest way what with all the wires."

"Wires?" I ask quickly, panicked.

"Nothing to be worried about, honey," Nurse Foster replies. "They're to make her better."

"Okay," I murmur.

"We ready?" she asks with a grin.

Alice looks up at me and shrugs. "Are we?"

I look from my sister's face, to the nurse, and then to the door. I stand; rooted in place, heart pounding, fear creeping, knowing beyond doubt that with one simple turn of a handle my whole world will change forever.

The moment is colossal, and yet I find myself moving towards her. It's a subconscious reaction that, consciously, I know is the right one to have. I reason silently with myself that it is the only way to go. It is inevitable. _She_ was inevitable.

Alice was right.

I'm an asshole who was going to be caught eventually, and I'm petrified. My hands are sweating. I'm woozy, but I am _not_ my father; I am determined not to run away from it.

From _her_.

She is my responsibility, and, even if I fuck it all up, at least I've tried.

"I'm ready," I say gently, eyes still firmly on the door.

"Okay."

Nurse Foster opens the door, and I am at once greeted with the sound of beeping machines and the hiss of oxygen being pumped. Alice scuttles in, and the excitement is clear as day on her face. I have to commend her. Ordinarily, she'd have been climbing the fucking walls with enthusiasm, but she knows I need to take each moment calmly and quietly.

Nurse Foster gestures for us to follow her, and my eyes snap immediately to a small incubator. My feet fasten themselves to the floor, and I watch, hands fisting, paralysed, as Alice and the nurse approach it.

Alice peeks over the top of the incubator, I assume to get a better look, and her hands go directly to her mouth as she gasps. This makes a cold sweat bloom ferociously across my forehead and my heart gallop behind my ribs.

_Is there something wrong?_

I move forwards, my eyes firmly on Alice's profile. Her hands are over her mouth, so I can't tell if she's upset or what. Frustration bites at the tips of my fingers as they press further into the flesh of my palms. I am a foot away from her when she turns to me.

"Oh, Coda," she whispers, eyes wide and glassy.

"What?" I say just as quietly.

She cups my chin and turns my head towards the incubator. "Look at her."

And I do.

And Jesus, I'm fucking floored.

The first thing I notice is how small she is. I mean, shit, she's fucking tiny. Lying on a thick, pink blanket, she is only wearing a diaper, and it seems to swallow at least half of her little body. She's fast asleep, and her mouth is puckered into a pout of two perfectly pink lips.

I suck in a stunned, fuck-me breath.

_I _do that in my sleep.

I've always done it, since I was a kid. Alice used to tease me about it mercilessly.

But that's not all. Covering her head is a soft smattering of auburn, blonde tinted hair. It curls at the top of her ears, just as mine did. I finger the back of my head without thinking. The auburn hair is a Cullen thing. My mom had gorgeous auburn hair. It was curly too. I remember she used to let me brush it for her at bedtimes using a brush that was almost as big as I was. It always smelled of flowers and was beautifully thick. She was devastated when it fell out.

The memory momentarily chokes me, and I rub a hand down my face. I never take my eyes off the baby, though.

I can't stop staring. She's . . . well, she's fucking perfect.

Her skin is a beautiful peach colour, and it looks softer than silk. She has ten fingers and ten toes (I count them), and her eyelashes are so long that they actually sit on her cheeks.

"Coda," Alice says at my side. "She's beautiful."

I nod in reply. Seemingly, words have escaped me.

"She looks _just_ like you."

I swallow and close my eyes for a brief moment, trying to rein myself in. "I know," I murmur. "It's fucking freaky."

She stirs a little, and I'm entranced as she stretches and makes a small squeaky type noise.

"Is she okay?" I ask, looking quickly at the nurse.

She smiles and blinks slowly. "She's fine. She'll be almost ready for her feed."

"Feed?"

"Yes, would you like to give her a bottle?"

I stare at the nurse as if she's just asked me to donate a kidney and then look back at the tiny girl in a diaper that is far too big. She looks so damned helpless and fragile. The thought of holding her scares the bejeesus out of me.

I shake my head, suddenly feeling very nervous. "What if I drop her?"

Alice laughs lightly. "You won't. Trust yourself."

"I don't," I retort out of the corner of my mouth.

Smiling, she places a hand on mine. "You're her father. You won't drop her."

Unconvinced and feeling as if I'm about to combust from the inside out, I find myself sitting in a chair watching the nurses manoeuvre the baby out of the incubator. As she said, there are a few wires, which she tells me are doing various things for her. I listen, but I don't really understand. Honestly, as long as they are not hurting her, I'm fine with it.

My instant protectiveness of the tiny girl is like a slap across the face. Its arrival shocks the shit out of me. It is vehement and unyielding. It centres in my gut and ripples out until it's festering silent but threatening under my skin. It's a peculiar, but vaguely fulfilling feeling.

The nurse approaches me with a tiny pink bundle. "Hold your arms like mine," she directs me softly.

I do as she asks, and my face flushes in embarrassment. "Watch her head," she tells me, and slowly places her into my arms.

I keep my arms bent as I hold her in an arrangement that simply screams cramp. But I can't move. The baby weighs nothing, yet she feels massive and awkward. I have actually stopped breathing and am only alerted to the fact when my lungs start to burn in protest. Her minute head sits in the crook of my elbow, but her feet don't even reach my wrist. I'm fucking gigantic next to her, and the protectiveness growls once more from deep inside me.

I am entirely fucking torn. Part of me wants to run away screaming, denying all knowledge and yet another part of me wants to protect her for the rest of my life.

My eyes scan every inch of her from her hair, down her small nose, to her chest, which rises and falls quickly. Her legs are scrunched up, bent at the knees, and her feet are minute. I swear they are the length of my pinkie finger.

How the fuck can something so small be so damned scary?

I swallow and try to relax into the chair, but my bones feel as though they have seized up. I frown when I notice a small red mark on the inside of her left ankle. It's about the size of a dime and covers her skin down to her heel.

"What's that?" I ask.

Both Alice and the Nurse look over. Their expressions tell me it's nothing serious.

"It's just a birthmark," Alice replies as she skims her finger over it. "A strawberry angel kiss."

I smirk at my sister. "Angel kiss?"

She nods and shrugs. "That's what we tell William about his."

"He has one?"

"Yeah, on the small of his back. We tell him it's where the angels kissed him before they sent him down to us."

The smirk on my face relaxes to a soft smile, and I return my gaze to the baby in my arms. Her small hands fist tightly, and she stretches again.

Is it that simple? _Was_ she sent down to me for a reason? Maybe she_ looks_ like an angel.

Truthfully, I don't believe in shit like that. I don't believe in God. I haven't believed in God for a long time. I can't believe that a fair, just God would ravage a young mother's body with such a horrific illness and then rip her away from her two adoring children. That doesn't make sense to me. It never made sense to me.

Is my mother now an angel?

She always was in my eyes anyway.

"Here's her bottle," the nurse tells me, holding it out.

I take it as if it's a hand grenade and swallow hard.

"Just place it to her mouth and tilt it so that she's taking milk, not air."

I do as she asks me, feeling ridiculous. I imagine this is what an out of body experience is like, all out of control and shit. I'm entirely inept, even placing a bottle to a baby's lips.

But then, she moves.

She opens her mouth and latches on. And I'm feeding her, and she's enjoying it. She's drinking like a champ, and I am smiling because, well, it feels good to do it. It's peculiar seeing her feed, and yet, it makes me relax ever so slightly into my seat.

"She likes it," I say, mainly to myself.

Alice snorts. "If she's anything like you, she'll eat like a horse."

I ignore her, but the words settle somewhere warm, deep inside me. She _is_ like me. She looks like me. Jesus, the paternity test feels like a fucking April fool right now. She is mine. I made her and…

_Fuck_, what have I done?

She sucks the milk down and then . . . she opens her eyes.

Only slightly, like she's just checking we're all still here, but I see her do it and, Christ, it makes my head spin. They open and shut and her eyes look blue. They roll a little, like the milk makes her drunk, and then, I swear to God, she snuggles into my chest. It's probably my imagination. She's far too fucking small, but I felt it.

I move my arm for the first time, holding her a little closer, tucking the blanket over her in case she's a little bit cold. She's warm to the touch. Okay, I guess. I have no idea what I'm doing. I do it because it's the right thing to do. I move it over her feet, blinking down at the 'strawberry kiss' before I look at her auburn hair.

I smile, suddenly hit with a memory of a six-year-old Alice playing with one of her favourite dolls.

"Strawberry," I whisper. "Strawberry Shortcake."

**Holy burst ovaries, Batman!**

**Thanks once more to the lovely Purelyamuse who sprinkles her beta dust all over this fic.**

**Once again, your reviews leave me stunned. Thank you so very much.**

**Update at the weekend.**

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**TTFN xxxx**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Tonight I can feel the cold wind at my back**

**I'm flyin' high over the gray fields my feathers long and black**

**Down along the river's silent edge I soar**

I walk into work two days later, still a little confused, and a lot numb.

Actually, numb isn't the right word. The fact is I'm feeling so much now that it's hard to pin it down to one emotion.

Since my initial visit with Alice, I've been the NICU at the same time each day and fed Shortcake her bottle. And each time she's looked up at me, blue eyed and tiny, making my heart race and my mind hiccup.

Jasper laughed like a fucking drain when I told him about the name Shortcake, but it just kind of stuck.

I stride into the bar area of the club and nod at Rick as he puts bottles of beer into the fridge. Through there, I make my way to the main office, repeating my spiel silently in my head over and over again. If Emmett is gonna hear this, he needs to hear it right.

I knock once on the office door and hear a loud grunt in response. I put my hand on the handle, but pause when I hear a giggle, a moan, and what sounds like numerous heavy objects hitting the floor. I roll my eyes, pull my hand back, and glance at my watch.

Fuck me; it isn't even nine-thirty in the morning yet. I smile wryly and shake my head in incredulity. I shit you not, if there was a picture next to the word insatiable in the dictionary, it would be of Emmett's face. And maybe his cock.

The door opens abruptly, and I step back as Rose, one of our podium dancers comes out, blonde hair ruffled, eyes wide, satisfied, and sparkling. Her low cut top is rumpled and the button on her denim shorts is unfastened. She knows that I've noticed, and she shrugs with nonchalance. I chuckle, and she giggles in response. She's hot, and she knows it. Her rouged, swollen mouth is fucking golden.

Not that I'd know. She's Emmett's. It's unspoken, but we all know it.

"Morning, Ed," she purrs with a wink.

"Morning, Rose," I reply with a smirk. "Good breakfast?"

She doesn't even turn back. She simply sashays away from me, hips moving like a fucking metronome. "The best."

I shake my head and knock again cautiously. I've seen Emmett naked a million and one times but seeing him naked after sex is a little different. He hollers me in regardless. Thankfully, I find him seated on his sofa, laptop on his knees, dressed in work out shorts and nothing else. The room is messy and smells of sweat and something familiarly musty sweet. It hits my nose and makes my cock give an appreciative nod. I wordlessly berate the fucker.

He's still on a time out.

"Hey," Emmett smiles at me. "Ed, my man, how's it going? I thought you'd dropped off the face of the planet."

I smile and take a seat across from him. "Yeah, I know. Tuesday was a crazy one."

"Damn straight, boy! I've had women asking after you ever since your crazy vamp ass dry humped my stage. Shit, son, you killed it."

I laugh and place my foot on the opposite knee. The Halloween nights at the club always go well. This year I was a vampire. I danced to Annie Lennox '_Sweet Dreams'_ and '_Justify My Love'_ by Madonna. The dance was awesome, and the chicks went apeshit. I made almost twelve hundred dollars in tips alone. I gyrated and ripped my clothes off, and they screamed and shoved twenties in my thong. Easy pickings.

"I hear you didn't go home alone," he says with a wide grin.

I lick my lips and avoid his eyes. "Yeah."

Thinking back to that night – the night everything changed – I feel uncomfortable. It's not the first time I've had more than one girl in my bed, but things are different now. _I'm _different now.

I've never been embarrassed about my job. Never. I work hard, and I make a shit tonne of money doing something I love – dancing. But the whole sex with strange women thing just doesn't sit well with me now. I'm not planning fucking marriage and monogamy or some shit, but the one nightstand crap has to stop.

I have to do it for her.

Emmett moves his laptop to the sofa and pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. "What's up, man? You look about as comfortable as a hooker in a confessional."

I exhale a laugh and sit back in my seat. I fiddle with the lace on my sneaker and clear my throat. Emmett has been a good friend of mine for the six years I have worked at the club. He supported me when I started out and had no money, and he helped guide me back to the right path when I got in with a bad crowd.

He is always and has always told me that I have talent, and my name always takes top billing for our performances, but all that doesn't stop me from being scared to death that he'll be pissed. I'm terrified that he will throw my ass to the curb now that I've fucked up royally. This isn't a situation he can throw money at or use his charm to fix as he has with so many other situations me and the other boys have found ourselves in.

If the club were a church Emmett would be the high priest, and we would be his altar boys. Take that as you will, but we work for him and do his bidding. Having a baby is not fucking conducive to the perfect running of a machine that Emmett ensures is always well oiled and smooth.

I'm the available, obtainable, no strings attached lead dancer and stripper, Coda, at Eclipse Club, Seattle and…

"I have a baby."

Emmett snorts. "Yeah, me too," he replies blowing his smoke towards the ceiling. "She's the one with a mouth like a Hoover who just left." He waves his hand towards the door and laughs.

"No, Emmett," I say firmly, finally looking right at him. "I have a _baby_."

The cigarette in his mouth drops at the same time his eyes go wide. "What?"

I crack my knuckles and fidget. "Yeah."

"No shit?"

"No shit," I reply with a slow shake of my head.

It takes me all of four minutes to tell him everything, from the call three days before at stupid o'clock, to leaving Shortcake two hours ago. By the time I finish, Emmett looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. I watch as he puts out his smoke and furrows his brow. He hums in a way I don't recognise as positive or negative, and opens and closes his hands. I'm nervous. I'm nervous as fuck.

"So what does this mean?" he asks. "Are you quittin'?"

I shake my head vigorously. "No way, man! I wouldn't." I run my hands through my hair. "I need this job now more than ever!"

This seems to placate him. He breathes deeply and crosses his humongous arms over his even larger chest.

He tilts his chin and looks at me in a way that makes me feel like I'm in the principal's office. "And you're sure you're doing the right thing? I mean, it's a big thing, dude. Is this really what you want?"

The weight of his words lies on my shoulders. I have asked myself the same question repeatedly since I first heard the news, and the answer is still the same. I can't walk away from this. From her. I have to face up to my responsibility. My daughter.

Hearing this, Emmett nods and rubs his chin. He remains infuriatingly silent. I sit forward, dropping my foot back to the floor, and clasp my hands that are hanging between my knees.

"I don't know what's going to happen, Em," I say honestly. "I'm still running to catch up with this shit myself. I just wanted to be straight with you."

"I appreciate that," he replies.

I sigh and drop my head to my chest. I'm starting to fray around the edges somewhat, but I have to keep it together. "I know that I'm meant to be accessible to all the women who come here and shit, I do, and I will be, while I'm here. I just can't I-I can't have them at my place, the parties, the fucking."

Emmett holds up his hand, and I stop. "Ed, what you do when you're off clock is _your _motherfucking business, no-one else's. As long as you turn up, do your shit, drive the bitches wild, and make me money, I don't care. You have a baby. Fine. Have a baby; just make sure that you're making the right decision."

"I am," I answer quickly. "I'm not gonna run away from my kid like my asshole father did."

Emmett nods. "I hear that." He was raised by a single mother too. "I respect that, Ed. I do."

He holds his hand out to me, and I take it. He folds his fingers around mine, and smiles. "Anything I can do, brother, just name it."

=DiTD=

"It's pink."

Alice groans and slaps a palm to her face. "Of course it's pink, Edward. She's a girl."

I look at the roll of wallpaper that she holds in her hands and frown. "It has bears on it."

This is the final straw. She slams it down onto my kitchen table and huffs. "Well, excuse me for trying to help," she barks. "I don't know why I bother."

I'm not _trying_ to be obtuse, but I don't like it. I know it has to be cute and shit, but it's not what I would have chosen. I mean, bears. Really?

"I appreciate it. I do," I assure her. I lift and drop my shoulders. "It's just not . . . her."

Her face softens, and she smiles. "Aw, look at you and your protectiveness."

I frown and shrug indifferently. "I'm not." _Lie_. "I just want something different."

"Like what?"

I push my hands into my pockets and lean my hip against the kitchen table, thinking hard about what would look nice in my art room that I now have to turn into a nursery. I swear my life is going a million miles an hour.

"Do they still have Strawberry Shortcake stuff around these days?" I ask.

Alice laughs. "Oh, yes, they do. She's had a slight makeover, but it's practically the same as when we were kids."

"Maybe we could get some of that?" I suggest. I turn it into a question so my sister still thinks she has full artistic licence. "They do wallpaper, right?"

Alice nods and bites her lip while she looks at me. Her stare is unnerving, so I begin fussing around with the plates that have been sitting on the draining board in an attempt to avoid it.

"Don't be embarrassed," she says, appearing at my side.

I cough a small laugh. "I'm not embarrassed." _Lie._ "What do I have to be embarrassed about?"

"That you care," she replies quickly.

Her words make me stop. I place the plates down gently and rest my palms on the edge of the kitchen counter. I exhale, close my eyes for one brief moment, and try to slow my brain down.

The truth is she's right. I _do_ care. I care a hell of a lot.

I care that I have to shift a shit tonne of stuff out of my apartment to make room for a crib, toys, and other crap that Alice has on a list. A list that keeps getting longer by the hour. I care that I'm exhausted from work and want to kick back and relax instead of choosing fucking wallpaper and onesies. I care that I still have to tell my aunt and uncle about the new addition to the family. And I care that not one part of me is ready for Shortcake coming to live in my apartment.

In a week.

_One_ week. _Jesus_.

How the fuck can this be happening in just seven days?

"Hey," Alice murmurs with a hand on my back. "Talk to me."

I try to shake my head, but it's too heavy on my shoulders, pushing me down deeper into panic and doubt.

"It's okay to be scared." My sister tells me. "I'd be worried if you weren't."

"It's just so much," I croak, hating the weakness in my voice. "So much . . . is happening, changing."

"I know," she assures me. "I know. And you're doing great."

I snort derisively and take deep breaths. "I feel like I'm walking on a fucking cliff edge, Alice. I'm just waiting to fall right off."

"You won't," she urges. "You're fine. You're daughter is coming home, and you're fine."

I try with all I have to let her words find a safe route into my mind and heart, but it isn't easy. The anticipation and determination that has built up over the last few days is dwindling, and now I'm hanging onto responsibility and pride by my fucking fingernails.

My elbows bend in submission, and I drop my chin to my chest. I'm spread too thin.

"If I fuck up—"

"You _won't_," Alice interrupts me. Her voice is strong and honest. "And if you do, you get up, dust off, and move on. All parents make mistakes, Coda. Even the best ones. And _you_ will be one of the best ones. I know it."

Her words are undeniably sweet and her faith in me—for one fleeting moment—do make me feel better enough to nod in response, but, truthfully, I am far from convinced.

The sound of the doorbell draws me from my pity party, and I kiss Alice on the forehead as I pass her. I am so fucking thankful for her support. I don't know what I'd do without it. I think about buying her something nice to show my gratitude.

I open the door and lean on its edge with my forearm.

"You called?" Jake asks loudly with his arms spread open and a smile that's wider than the Hoover Dam.

Behind him stand Seth, Quil, and Embry who look equally eager in backward caps and low hanging jeans. They look like they're going to a fucking boy band convention. We seriously need to work on their look. I shake my head and chuckle.

"What's funny, man?" Seth asks, pulling his mirrored shades from his face.

"Other than you wearing shades in November when it's raining, nothing," I answer dryly. The other boys laugh and whoop at the burn. "You know I didn't call you for a rehearsal, right?" I ask.

"Yeah," Jake replies. "Why _are_ we here?"

I stand to the side and gesture with my hand for them to come in. They scramble against each other as they enter, drawing Alice from the kitchen.

She smiles and waves when she sees them. "Hey, boys!"

They respond in kind with waves and hellos. I smack Quil upside the head when I see him wink and purse his lips in my sister's direction. They're my boys, but I am not opposed to kicking their asses should they step out of line. Jake, Seth, Quil, and Embry are 'The Pack,' a dance group that Jake and myself created three years ago.

I have known Jake for years. He is the son of my uncle's best friend. He is twenty-one, and one of the most phenomenal dancers I have ever met. Before I moved away from home, we would hang out and break dance the days away. I have nine years on him and almost fifteen years more dance experience, but I know he's better than I am.

He's fearless, and that is invaluable in a dancer. The other three are friends of his. They're amazing, and I know they'll go on to do incredible things. For now, they use a dance space I rent. It's not ideal, but at least they have a place to go.

"Okay," I say, clapping my hands together. "Today is moving day."

"You're moving?" Embry asks with a furrowed brow.

"No," I deadpan. I point with my thumbs over my shoulder. "_You_ are moving a fuckton of my stuff to the storage unit I have in the basement."

They all begin to protest.

"Get moving," I bark and smile when they do as I ask.

=DiTD=

"Is it true that you have a baby?" Mike grins as he rubs his hair with a towel.

I pull the zipper on my hoodie up to my chin and roll my eyes. Fucking Emmett. It's not that I care whether everyone at the club knows my shit, but Mike is a grade A prick. I answer him with a sharp nod.

"Good to know the old swimmers are working, huh?" He laughs loudly and slaps me on the back.

I ignore him because he's a fucking asshole and throw my bag over my shoulder. It's late, and I have no time for Mike's douchebag personality. I need to get home and chill. Maybe even get some sleep.

I wave my goodbyes to the other boys and make my way out of the club to the car. It's colder than a witch's tit, and the threat of snow hangs heavy in the air. I hear a group of girls laugh and squeal as they wander onto the car lot. I recognise them from my set earlier tonight. They were vocal then, too. And handsy. Although, they paid well.

They wave and whistle at me, shouting things that pretty girls really shouldn't. I smile and wave back but continue to my car. Ordinarily, I would have stayed behind, had a few drinks with them, and then taken them back to my place, but nothing in my life is ordinary anymore. I sigh and watch them giggle and stumble in their high heels, licking my lips at their long legs.

Hard, pissed, and feeling punchy, I get into the car and drive home.

Back at the apartment, I throw my bag down inside the door, deposit my keys on the side table, and press play on my answering machine. I wander to the fridge because I need a fucking drink to loosen up. I freeze with the bottle of Corona at my lips when I hear Mama Esme's voice.

"_It's only me. You must be at work. Just calling to make sure that you and Alice are still coming over tomorrow. It'll be lovely to see you. Bye, darling."_

Fuck.

In the living room, I slump against the back of the sofa and stare down the hallway to the new nursery. The boys cleared it out, and, two days ago, while I was at work, they helped Alice decorate it and move all the new stuff in. I simply got a credit card receipt. I helped choose a stroller from the internet, and I chose the Strawberry Shortcake theme, but that's been the extent of my involvement.

I'm trying, I am, but it's difficult. I'm trying to take one-step at a time and shopping at Babies R Us feels like too big a leap.

I haven't been in the nursery yet. Something keeps stopping me from pushing the door all the way open. I will do it. Eventually. Just not yet. Alice tells me it's beautiful, and I believe her. She has an amazing eye. Except for the fucking bears.

I glimpse the ivory wallpaper through the small crack in the doorway and drain half of my beer. I turn and grab the stereo remote from the sofa arm and hit that shit. The Boss' guitar and voice fill the living room, easing my tension almost instantly. The words of My City in Ruins resonate through me, and I close my eyes.

_With these hands, with these hands, I pray for the strength, Lord._

Opening them slowly, I stare, once again, at the sliver of ivory and sigh. Alice suggested that I offer to take our aunt—Mama Esme—baby clothes shopping as a way of easing the shock of my news tomorrow, but I'm not sure that'll help. It's not that she's unsupportive. She's anything but. I just know secretly she wants me settled down and married before I have kids. Like Alice.

It's not that I don't agree with that way of doing things, it's just not me. Fuck, I haven't had a relationship longer than a weekend since I was twenty. She always tries not to look disappointed, but I know, deep down, she wants more for me.

I rub a hand down my face and finish my beer. I wander over to the fridge to get another and notice my sister's list. She's taped the fucking thing to my fridge door so I don't forget. I peruse it thinking about the money I've already spent and the money I _still_ need to spend. In fairness, it all looks pretty straight forward, although, what the hell a steriliser is, I have no clue.

Tomorrow I have to bite the bullet and tell the rest of my family. Christ, I can't even begin to imagine Mama Esme's reaction. Unable to contemplate it, I drop my half-drunk beer in the trash, turn the Boss up some more, throw myself down onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling.

When did everything get so fucking complicated?

=DiTD=

Ten hours and not enough sleep later, I'm walking up the path to my aunt and uncle's house with James in my arms and a wedge of fear in my throat. Alice and Jasper are behind me with William. I can feel Alice's eyes boring into the back of my head. She's already given me the pep talk about how I will be fine, how everything will work out. Her optimism is endearing but totally wasted on me.

The front door opens before we reach it.

Mama Esme stands with her arms wide, a kitchen towel on her shoulder, greeting us with a beaming smile. She's beautiful.

"Darlings." She grins.

"Hey," I reply with a small smile, approaching her.

She cups my face and kisses my cheek. She smells of baking and sweet flowers. James wriggles in my arms and reaches for her. She takes him, exaggerating how heavy he is with a groan and a wheeze, and hugs him tightly.

"Nana!" he squeals when he wraps his arms around her neck. William squeezes her around the waist, and both my sister and Jasper get kisses. The tactile nature of my family is one of my favourite things.

After Alice and I lost our mother, Esme made kisses and hugs integral to our daily routine. She didn't demand us to talk about our grief, but insisted that we accepted her love every time she showed it. Being a fourteen-year-old asshole, it took me a while to understand, but eventually I found I was actively seeking out her embraces. The nickname, Mama Esme, was thought up by Alice. We always thought that calling her Esme was too formal, and Aunt Esme didn't encapsulate what she truly is to us.

I walk into the house and begin to shake off my jacket just as Carlisle saunters in from the kitchen.

"Edward." He shakes my hand and smiles, "Good to see you, son."

"You, too," I reply, placing my jacket on the back of the couch. "You look well."

He visibly preens. "I've been running again."

I laugh and nod. I make sure I look impressed. "You can certainly tell. Your stomach is still flabby, but it's nowhere near as big as it—"

My words are cut off by his grabbing me around the neck with his forearm and wrestling with me playfully.

"You are never too big for an ass whooping, Edward Cullen!" he exclaims.

We've been this way for years. Carlisle doesn't show his love the way Mama Esme does. He shows it through laughter and playfulness. Alice and I moved in with them the day after my mom died, fifteen years ago. She'd written in her Will that we were to live with her brother and sister in law. She and Carlisle had always been close. Like the rest of us, he was devastated when she passed on. His speech at the funeral was heartbreaking, and his love for 'Little Lizzy' profound.

Moving into my aunt and uncle's house was a huge change for all of us, but they tried to make it as easy as possible. In true fashion, I was a shit. I was angry and took it out on the people who were closest, but they never gave up on me. They took us in and loved us as their own.

Being a paediatric surgeon and an OBGYN nurse, respectively, the cruel irony was Carlisle and Mama were never able to have their own children. Consequently, they cherished us that little bit more.

Straightening my hair and sweater after Carlisle has released me; I can't help but see the similarities between my childhood and Shortcake's. Both of us losing our mothers in tragic circumstances and suddenly all alone in the world.

I pause as an unexpected truth hits me: I hadn't been alone. I had Alice. And I wasn't a helpless baby. I was fourteen, and I had people who were willing to love me and give me a wonderful home. Unlike me, a selfish bastard who cares only about himself and the changes in his own life.

The guilt induced nausea ripples over me, and, as discreetly as I can, I move from the sitting room, through the kitchen and out the back door. I need a breath of fresh air before the walls close in on me again.

It is crisp outside, and my breath is visible. I close my eyes and turn my face towards the sky. The smell of winter fills the sky like smog. I take it into my lungs and breathe it out slowly.

"You sneaking about?"

I smile gently when I hear Mama Esme's voice. I turn and shake my head, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

"No," I reply, although we both know I'm lying.

"What's going on?" she asks softly. She walks to me and stops at my side. She doesn't look at me, however. She gazes out towards the small brook at the back of the house.

I exhale and make a noise in my throat I've never heard before. It's fear and anger and shame. I toe the floor like a naughty fucking schoolchild and avoid looking at her. I'm a coward.

"You can tell me anything," she insists, and my heart stammers. She's too fucking good to me.

"I know," I answer quietly. "I just don't want you to be angry or disappointed."

She laughs lightly. "Oh, sweetheart," she croons. "That would never happen." Her face suddenly turns mock serious. "Unless you killed someone or voted Republican. You haven't, have you?"

I shake my head while I laugh with her. Her attempts at easing the tense atmosphere is appreciated more than she could know.

"No," I reply. "Neither of those."

She claps a dramatic hand to her chest. "Thank goodness."

I watch her face as it smiles and then softens. My shoulders drop in defeat. "I've made a mess, Mama. A real, crappy, life changing mess."

I glance at her quickly, but she's still looking away from me. She's waiting. She will wait until I'm ready to tell her. For a split second, I think that moment will never come.

I take a huge breathe and push the words out as fast as I can. "I—I have—I have a baby."

She's silent like Alice had been after I told her, but, when I glance at her, she isn't smiling. In fact, she isn't doing anything. Her expression is the same, and she continues to stare out at the water. The silence remains, building between us and driving me crazy, and I find myself blurting out the whole story about Leah and Shortcake in an attempt to fill it.

I tell her about the phone call, Doctor Weber, and the first time I held Shortcake. I tell her about the new nursery, Alice's fucking list, and the absolute fear I have inside about what kind of father I am going to be. I tell her I'm sorry for being an ass, for being stupid and selfish, and that I will try my best to make it work. I promise I won't rely on her for anything and that I know I have to deal with this like a man. I know this is my mess, and I will do all I can to clear it up.

By the time I've finished, I'm drained. I wander back to the house and drop down, taking a cold ass seat on the porch step. I place my hands to my face and close my eyes.

It seems like an age has passed when Mama Esme sits down next to me. Her small arm rubs against mine, and I hear her hum in contemplation.

"That is _some_ news," she murmurs. I don't detect an ounce of disappointment or judgement, and it warms me.

I laugh without humour and rub the back of my neck. "Yeah."

She finally looks at me, and all I see on her face is love and acceptance.

"Look," she says softly. "You're a grown man. You make your own decisions. You don't need me to lecture you about things you were taught when you were fifteen."

I sigh and start to rub the bridge of my nose, but she captures my hand in hers and squeezes it. "But I am very proud of you for doing the right thing, Edward."

I frown at her, surprised. "You are?"

She smiles and plays with the front of my hair. "Of course, I am. You're taking responsibility. That little girl needs you, and you're stepping up. She's lucky to have you."

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and hugs me. At once, I relax, and the problems I have shrink ever so slightly. She kisses my temple.

"And you can rely on us for anything," she whispers. "We love you. Whatever you need, we'll be there for you."

At that moment, freezing as I am, I'm capable of only two words, and they creep out of me with gratitude and hope. "Thank you."

=DiTD=

My leg is bouncing like a freakin' jack hammer, and I've bitten my thumbnail down to the quick. It hurts like hell, but the sweating brow and thundering pulse in my ears makes my brain incapable of processing anything else but the impending arrival of Shortcake.

I'm sitting next to Mama and Alice on an uncomfortable as all fuck bench in Seattle General Hospital. They sit at either side of me, flanking me like prison guards, scared to death that I'll run. In truth, part of me still wants to, but the more prevalent part makes my ass stay put. We've been waiting hours. Well, not hours, but it sure as hell feels like it. The room is small and whitewashed and makes me even more edgy. The hands of the clock creep around the face of it slowly, and I slump back in my seat.

"Calm down," Alice mutters at my side.

I ignore her. My eyes are now fixed on the door the doctor went through to get Shortcake. I haven't seen her since yesterday, and the anticipation that occurs whenever I arrive at the hospital to see her, starts to wash through me. I can't deny a small piece of me is excited about seeing her, about taking her home. I just wish the larger, more prominent scared shitless parts would shut the fuck up and let me enjoy the moment.

My conversation with Mama Esme three days ago and all subsequent dialogues since have made me realise I've been looking at this whole situation in the wrong way. Shortcake is a blessing. I am lucky to have her and vice versa. I've been given a precious opportunity to look after a little girl who has no one else in the world. The circumstances suck ass, and the shock of it still hasn't entirely disappeared, but I'm more prepared for it.

For _her_.

I leap to my feet when the door of the room opens slowly, and the doctor appears with a small pink bundle in her arms. I swallow and wipe my palms on the ass of my jeans. They are damp with stress, and I don't want to put them on Shortcake when they're like that. I hear Mama gasp at my side and see Alice hug her.

The doctor approaches with a smile on her face. "Here she is."

I smile back at her, but it's tight. It pulls on my face uncomfortably. Paradoxically, my hands reach out for Shortcake immediately, and I take her into my arms. She's grown a lot since the first time we met. Her face is rounder, less fragile looking. I'm still scared to death I'll hurt her in some way, but it's comforting to know she's getting bigger, getting stronger. She's been in hospital for two weeks, and seeing her without any type of tubing or wiring leaves me a little startled.

I look down at her and hold her closely. She's wearing the pink, bear covered onesie Alice picked for her. Despite the bears, it's cute. It makes her cheeks glow and her hair look even more auburn.

She's beautiful.

"Let me see my granddaughter," Mama murmurs at my side. She manoeuvres around me, bites her lip, and places her palm gently on Shortcake's head. "Oh, Edward."

I smile and nod. I know what she means. It's the lifting sensation that starts in the feet and travels throughout the body. I get it every time I see Shortcake's tiny face.

My response to Mama is simple. "Yeah."

Staring at the baby in my arms, I watch as she opens her eyes. Small slits of blue look back at me. I smile wider and whisper my words to her cheek. "Let's go home, Shortcake."

**Please hug your babies even tighter today.**

**Tell your loved ones what they mean to you.**

**Prayers to all in Connecticut.**

**Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	6. Chapter 5

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Five**

**We may feel safe and sound**

**But our dollhouse, girl, is falling down**

The roads in Seattle are a fucking joke. I mean, seriously, the potholes are ridiculous. Every time I drive over one, I have visions of Shortcake flying out of her car seat. She won't, I know. Mama Esme has repeated that around five times since we left the hospital.

Regardless, the roads are shit, and I intend to write a strongly worded letter to somebody about them.

Shortcake is fast asleep in her seat, bundled like a fucking baby burrito. I glance over at her as often as I can, while still driving safely. She looks to be okay, but it's strange. Since we left the hospital, my angst levels seem to have spiked. Maybe it's the fact that, for all intents and purposes, we're on our own now. The doctor gave me a number to call if there are any concerns, and we are due back soon for Shortcake's shots, but it's still unnerving as hell.

I have my sister and Mama Esme in the back of the car, and they are with me one hundred and ten per cent, but still I fret.

I pull up to my building. After fucking around with the stupid car seat, I finally manage to get her out and carry her—with the car seat handle in the crook of my elbow—up to my apartment.

I live in an open plan, loft apartment. I love it. Besides my car, it was the first thing I ever bought when things started going well at the club. I also sold a couple of pieces of artwork to finance it, but that was pure fluke. I decorated the entire place with blacks, greys, whites, and reds. I have vintage guitars on the walls and cherry wood bookcases. I have some of my artwork on the walls too, but not many people know that. My family and close friends know that I dabble in art: painting, sketching, and sculpting.

That's my thing. My hobby. My yoga, if you will. It relaxes me.

I think about sketching Shortcake.

The four of us enter the apartment, and I am at once unsure about what I do with the sleeping baby. Mama Esme notices my uncertainty and takes the car seat from me, placing her on the floor by the sofa. I frown.

"I can just leave her there?" I ask.

Alice and Mama both chuckle. "Of course," Alice says. "This is the time that you get to do what _you_ want to do. You go into the kitchen, take her with you."

Simple enough.

I pull my jacket off, hang it up, and stand with my hands on my hips, not really knowing what to do with myself. Shortcake is fast asleep. In fact, she's snoring. It's quiet, but I can hear it. I have to be honest: it's all slightly anticlimactic. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but quiet was not it. I watch as Mama and Alice coo over her, stroking her face and tiny hands. She does look minute between them, and I wonder once more how I will cope with her alone.

_Alone._

A million thoughts filled with panic and confusion hurdle relentlessly to the front of my brain.

"Diapers," I sputter.

Mama and Alice look at me quizzically.

"You have diapers," Mama replies.

"I know, but I haven't got the first fucking clue how to change one." I'd seen the nurse do it at the hospital, but never did it myself. "How the hell am I meant to change her diaper?"

I'm stressed, and I'm repeating myself.

"We'll show you," Alice says soothingly. "It's easy."

"Says the woman with two kids," I bite back.

Before she can retort with an equally scathing response, I continue. "Milk, bottles, changing her clothes, bathing her." I count each concern on my fingers. My breathing picks up, and my heart thunders.

"It's okay," Mama says softly. She approaches me and places a warm hand on my forearm. "We'll show you. We're here to help, not hinder."

"I know," I grumble. I run my hands through my hair, as the urge to pour a shot of Jack courses through me. "I just—fuck, what am I doing?" The worry in me escalates as does the dread and apprehension.

Mama sees it immediately. "If you want me to stay with you," she urges gently, "I will. Carlisle can do without me for a couple of nights."

I drop my chin to my chest and exhale. I'm ridiculously pathetic. This is _my_ problem, _my_ situation to handle. I can't have Mama here. She doesn't need to babysit Shortcake _and _me.

"It's too much to ask," I answer. "I can't do that."

The slap she gives me on the shoulder doesn't hurt so much as it shocks the shit out of me.

"Stop being such a damned martyr, Edward. _Who_ do you think will be looking after her when you work?" Her expression demands that I stay quiet. She is being rhetorical, and, at five feet two inches, absurdly intimidating. "I'll stay tonight and see how you get on tomorrow," she adds. "Case closed."

=DitD=

Making Shortcake's bottles is fairly easy. Mama shows me twice, and I make the third, while Alice sits on the sofa holding the baby. She's still asleep.

"Will she always sleep this much?" I ask, peering down at her. She looks suitably content in my sister's arms.

"When they're this young, yes," Alice says. "She'll simply keep you awake all night." The smile on her face is satisfied and all knowing.

"I don't need much sleep," I counter, lying.

"Getting her into a routine is key," Mama says firmly. "You must make sure you feed her, bathe her, and put her down for sleep at roughly the same time every day. Otherwise you'll have problems."

"Routine." I nod. "Got it."

Although, I'm pretty sure I have no fucking clue.

Next is the diaper change.

Alice hands Shortcake to me, and I hold her to my chest, cupping her small butt in my hand. My fingers reach almost the full length of her back. Her small head rests under my chin, and I find myself snuggling and breathing her in. She smells like nothing else I've ever come across. And she's so damned warm.

I make my way to the nursery, and, after taking a deep breath, I push the door open. Honestly, I'm not sure what stopped me from going in there to begin with. Standing in the doorway with Shortcake in my arms, I can barely remember what it looked like before Alice decorated it.

It's Strawberry Shortcake themed with soft pinks, lavenders, and whites. It's the original character that I remember Alice having when she was little. The ivory wallpaper I had seen through the gap in the doorway is littered with light green leaves and flowers. The crib is ivory with plush blankets and teddies of all descriptions, including a Strawberry Shortcake doll. There is a chest of drawers and a rocking chair, as well as a larger, more comfortable looking seat next to another set of drawers on top of which is a changing mat.

It's stunning.

I pull Alice to me with one arm around her shoulder and kiss her head.

"You're welcome," she tells me, patting a palm to my stomach.

After placing Shortcake down on the changing mat (her small arms and legs scrunched up and uncooperative) Mama shows me how to change her. There are wipes used, powder, and a new diaper is on her in a matter of moments. Mama lifts and moves the baby without any concern about her tiny bones. A strange pulling sensation flutters in my chest. It's not a whole lot different from what I felt in the hospital the first time I saw her.

Protectiveness, I think.

"Aren't you being a little . . . rough?" I ask carefully, scratching the back of my head.

She simply smiles, never stopping as she fastens the onesie back up.

"Not at all," she replies. "You have to keep a good hold on her, Edward. Don't be afraid of moving her. She's made of tough stuff."

"Tough stuff," I echo and hold out my hands to take her.

I hold Shortcake up and away from me, looking at her as her eyes open and close sporadically. Her legs stay scrunched to her body, as do her arms. She looks like a wrinkly, auburn fuzzed munchkin. I could hold her easily in the palm of my hand. She also still looks drunk to me—all rolling eyes and no coordination. Cute, but drunk. Her minuscule tongue pokes out between her lips, and she makes a squeaky, gurgling noise. It makes me smile.

"Is she hungry?" I ask.

"Maybe," Alice says. I see her watching me in my periphery, and it makes me nervous. I pull Shortcake back to me and hold her to my chest again.

"In that case, we'd better feed her," I say, walking from the nursery back to the kitchen.

I observe carefully as Mama heats the milk up and tests it on her wrist before she hands it to me. She tells me it's very important to check the temperature, which I'd kind of figured out myself. I don't want to burn the poor kid's gums.

A bib is placed around Shortcake's neck, and I sit to feed her. She takes the bottle as well as she has all the times I've fed her at the hospital. This bit I like. This bit I can handle. For such a small thing, she guzzles the milk like it's straight vodka (which I could fucking kill for).

With Alice's guidance, I burp her carefully and hold her until she falls asleep. Having her lying on me, head tucked under my chin, warm and wrapped in a blanket, I start to become sleepy myself. It's bizarre how relaxed I feel, how content. Whether this is the calm before the storm in terms of her screaming the fucking apartment down, or she really is a good baby, only time will tell. And, at this point, I don't really care. I allow myself to bask in the peace and warmth of the moment.

The surreal aspect of the moment, however, I will deal with later.

Before I fall asleep with Shortcake in my arms, I'm vaguely aware of Mama telling me that she's going home to pack a bag of things to bring back.

=DitD=

There is sand in my eyes. They itch and they burn.

Including the nap I had after I fed Shortcake, I have had four hours of sleep.

I am on my third cup of coffee.

Shortcake lies in her bassinet, snoozing happily, oblivious to my torment, after having me awake almost every hour. I fed her. I changed her. I fed her some more. Short of putting her out for the garbage men to collect at five AM this morning (which I was fucking tempted to do) , I don't know what else I could have done. I'm just so relieved that Mama stayed the night. She was calm and soothing when I was ready to rip my fucking hair out by the roots.

She's staying again tonight.

I have the rest of the week off work, thanks to Emmett pulling in a few favours with the other boys, and it's a good job. I would never be able to function properly let alone dance, feeling the way I do.

I shower while Mama watches the baby, and I try to make myself look a little more human. I have dark rings under my eyes highlighting the lack of rest I've had, both physically and emotionally. I may be a night owl. I may dance and drink until stupid hours when I work, but I love my sleep. I fucking love it. If I go to bed at four, I will sleep through until two in the afternoon. Four hours is simply not enough for me. Mama laughs when I tell her this. I have the feeling I will have to get used to it and fast.

She tells me it's not uncommon for a baby to be so unsettled the first night. I look at Shortcake all cosy and shit in her bassinet and roll my eyes. Unsettled. Yeah, I'm feeling pretty fucking unsettled too.

My cell phone rings as I watch Mama dress Shortcake, and I smile when I look at the screen.

"Hey, sweetness," I answer smoothly.

"Hey, yourself." Charlotte's voice is rich and sexy.

"What's going on?"

"I could ask you the same question," she says with a small laugh. "Where were you last night? I thought we were going to party."

I run a hand through my hair and avoid looking at Mama. She's staring at me. I can feel it.

"Um . . . yeah," I answer. "Shit to do. You haven't spoken to Emmett?"

"No. Why?"

"No reason," I reply quickly. "I'll be back at the club next week."

She hums. "Can I see you before then?"

She's killing me. I'd love to see Charlotte before then. I'd love to see Charlotte all night long before then.

Shortcake makes a sound that I'm already starting to recognise as 'feed-me-now,' and Mama holds her out to me with narrow, judging eyes. I sigh and take the baby in one arm.

"I'd love to," I say. "I really fucking would-"

"But you can't," she finishes.

There isn't an ounce of annoyance or displeasure in her voice. What Charlotte and I have is very simple, very straightforward, and very hot. She is the definitive booty call.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "Rain check?"

She laughs again. She's carefree, and I love that. "No problem."

"Adios." I press end call on my phone and ignore Mama's penetrating gaze.

I turn from her and head to the kitchen. I get Shortcake's bottle and start to warm it as Mama showed me. I jiggle her in the crook of my arm and smile when she opens her eyes. Perfect, miniature slashes of blue.

"I'm not going to lecture you," Mama says from her place by the sink.

Keeping my back to her, I exhale heavily. "Good," I remark.

"But you have much more to think about now, Edward. You can't just drop everything like you used to-"

"I know," I snap. I try not to be curt, but I'm tired, and I can't help it. I glance at her apologetically. "I know," I repeat gently.

She walks towards me and places a protective hand on Shortcake's head. "She is the only girl you can have in your life now. She is the only girl that matters."

I'm an asshole for thinking it, but for one split second, it's a bleak prospect. I have no right to be thinking that way. I have to be a man and look after Shortcake. Chasing after women was what got me into this mess to begin with. Mama's right, I can't just drop everything for a piece of ass, no matter how fucking sweet it may be. I know all of it. I do.

Nevertheless, it doesn't make it any easier to handle.

I take Shortcake from the kitchen and sit down on the sofa. She takes her bottle like a champion, looking at me with all the innocence of the world. I run my index finger through the front of her hair making it stand up in a quiff that would make even Elvis jealous.

Mama laughs. "Her hair is just like yours."

I nod. "Poor kid."

She sits on the arm of the sofa and watches me feed my daughter. My stomach twists as the tattoo on my heart pulses with the word.

"I know you have a life to live, Edward," she begins. "I know that you do certain . . . things that I don't approve of." She fingers the studs at the top of my right ear. "But it's not my approval you need. It's hers."

"I know what you're getting at, Mama," I answer. I look up at her. "I'm not stupid." I snort sardonically and look back at the baby in my arms. "Contrary to popular belief."

"I know you'll make her proud," she whispers.

I truly hope so.

=DitD=

The following two nights Shortcake is much better. She wakes in the night, of course, but only a couple of times. Both times, I try her with a bottle or check to see if she needs changing. I am getting fairly proficient at anything diaper related now, which isn't surprising considering the number of times I've changed her butt. I have making down to a fine art, too.

Bath time is interesting. She's just so damned small. The little bath Alice gave me sits on the kitchen table filled with warm water and bubble stuff that makes Shortcake smell of almonds. The first night Mama bathed her. The past two nights I've done it. I can't deny I didn't enjoy it. I was just terrified I was going to let her slip. Her skin's like soap when it's wet, and I have found myself gripping her tightly in my hand, while simultaneously trying to clean her.

It may take some time.

Tonight, however, she's back to waking me every twenty minutes. She's had milk, I've burped her, I've changed her, and still she cries. How ironic that it's our first night alone together. Mama left at eleven. I considered kicking her out. Once she was satisfied that Shortcake wasn't going to stir, she left with an anxious expression and a kiss on my cheek. I'd told her not to worry, that I'd be fine.

Now, I want to jump into the car, drive to her house, and throw Shortcake at her.

I storm around the apartment, shushing and patting her diapered butt, but it makes no difference. I sit in the nursery with her, playing the mobile with its whimsical fucking tunes, but that doesn't work. Every time I place a pacifier in her mouth, she spits it back at me with a noise that sounds strangely like 'fuck you.'

I am nearing breaking point. It is four AM; I'm in nothing but my underwear, and all I can hear is crying. I walk around with my eyes closed, bouncing her, rubbing her back, but it's useless. I want to sleep so badly, but every time I put her down her volume level goes up.

She is resting her head on my shoulder, crying into my neck when Carlisle picks up the phone. His voice is thick with sleep, and I immediately feel like a complete prick.

"I'm sorry it's so late," I start quickly. "I am. I'm sorry, but she won't fucking sleep."

I hear sheets move, and he groans. I imagine him sitting up. I hear Mama's voice in the background.

"It's Edward," he tells her. "The baby is crying."

I hear her go through a list of things I have already done a number of times: feeding, changing, temperature. I frown at the last one. She doesn't feel hot. She's warm from crying, but that's to be expected, right?

Mama tells me where the thermometer is in the nursery, and I hurry to find it. I'd never considered there might be something actually wrong with her. I mean, fuck, what kind of father am I if I don't know my own daughter is sick?

"Don't be silly," Carlisle berates me when I say this aloud. "Just take her temperature, and we'll take it from there."

I fight with Shortcake's onesie and place the thermometer under her small arm. Her crying is more like a whimpering now. It's exhausted and aches for sleep. I know how she feels.

"Ninety-nine," I tell Carlisle after looking at the stick.

"That's fine," he says. I can hear the smile in his voice, but I'm not about to start dancing around with happiness. She's still fucking crying.

I fasten her back up and lift her.

"What now?" I ask. I feel frantic, out of control. Never has something so small made me feel so fucking useless.

"Walk around with her," he says. "Sing to her. Play some music. If you're not relaxed, she won't be."

I close my eyes in frustration. Well then, we're both fucked.

"Does he want me to come over?" I hear Mama ask.

My body lifts in hope. I stand with the phone to my ear and a crying baby on my shoulder, wanting nothing more than to be saved by her, by anyone. I close my eyes. I feel hopeless, inadequate, and entirely out of my depth. If she came, I could sleep. She could walk around with Shortcake until she shuts up. I could be in bed, warm and comfortable . . .

I open my eyes slowly and shake my head.

"No," I say. "Stay where you are. Go back to sleep. We'll be fine."

It's a lie.

I have no clue if we will be. I have no clue as to whether I'll get any sleep tonight, but Mama doesn't deserve to be dragged out of bed at stupid o'clock just because _I_ can't cope. I'm disgusted in myself that I actually thought about it.

"You know where we are," Carlisle murmurs.

I do, and I don't know what I would do without them, but I need to buck the hell up and deal before running to them again.

I end the call and throw my cell onto the sofa.

"Okay," I say, patting Shortcake's back gently. "What did he say? Music?" I look down at her flushed red face. "Well, baby girl, we've got plenty of that."

She continues to cry as I make my way over to the stereo. I shush her and hum to her. I check which CD is in and smile. I know exactly which song to play. I walk to the middle of the sitting room as the opening cords start.

"Come on, Boss," I whisper. "Help me out here."

_She'll let you in her house_

_If you come knockin' late at night_

Perfection reverberates through the speakers. I close my eyes and let the music take me. I'm so fucking tired. I sing the words against Shortcake's hair and move from side to side gently, lightly moving my palm up and down her spine.

_She'll let you in her mouth_

_If the words you say are right._

Her cries quieten slightly. She grumbles and sniffs, moving her small head against my collarbone, fighting the tiredness that covers her. I keep moving, dancing with her slowly around my apartment. I grab the pink blanket from the sofa and tuck it around us both.

"I've never danced with a girl to this song before," I tell her as I wrap her up. "I only save Bruce for very special occasions. You should be honoured."

She takes a deep breath against me, almost giving in as the song plays around us, filling my apartment with lush chords and velvet lyrics. I smile and put my cheek against hers as she yawns, finally quiet.

I don't even make it back to bed. I fall asleep on the sofa with her still on my chest, while Springsteen continues on repeat through the night.

Shortcake sleeps for six hours straight.

Yeah, she's a Boss fan.

She _must_ be my daughter.

=DitD=

Strollers are the Devil's Rubik cubes, I swear to God.

The stroller I chose, I chose because it looked straightforward. Wrong. It's not. It has buttons and levers that are confusing as all fuck and frustrate you to the point of homicide. Luckily, Alice is here to keep the situation from boiling over. The situation being me, of course.

"Forget it!" I bark when the fucking thing won't open up properly. "I'll just carry her in that sling, hammock thing that Mama got."

Alice laughs and shakes her head. I glare and reach for the sling hammock thing in question.

Shortcake has been home for four days, and we haven't been outside yet. Alice thought it would be nice to get some fresh air. I'm all for it. Truthfully, I'm feeling a little stir crazy. We're going to the park. James is coming too. He's currently standing next to Shortcake's bassinet, peering in to it, rubbing her belly with the tips of his fingers, while also showing her his Buzz Lightyear figure.

"Can she play Lightyear, Uncle E'ward?" he asks with hopeful, wide eyes.

"Give it a couple of years, buddy," I tell him as I ruffle his hair.

I love that kid.

The past couple of nights, Shortcake seems to have been a lot more settled. She wakes every couple of hours, sometimes three, and I'm exhausted. But progress is progress. Our routine is slowly taking shape, which, Mama tells me, is impressive. I'm not sure about that. I still feel as though I'm making it all up as I go along. Bath time is easier, and I can now change her diaper in less than ninety seconds.

I timed it.

I dress her every day, carefully, and I have even brushed her hair. She seems to like that. Like my mom did.

Alice fastens me into the baby-hammock-sling-thing and lifts Shortcake from the bassinet. I watch as she kisses her and nuzzles her face. It's odd. I snuggle with the baby and hold her a lot, but it's never really occurred to me to kiss her. Maybe that will come in time.

In a warm pink hat, and a fluffy thick onesie over her little yellow dress (which _I_ picked out), Shortcake looks all sorts of warm and cosy. She whines a little as Alice places her in the hammock, but once she's in and I touch her face, she quietens. Apparently, she likes being this close to my chest.

As long as she's quiet, I don't care.

Alice stands back and watches me as I pull on my beanie and jacket. Her face is covered by a weird expression.

I frown. "What?"

She snorts and shakes her head, pulling the baby bag onto her shoulder. "I'm calling twenty bucks we don't make it half way down the street before some tramp stops you to 'look at the baby.'"

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

We make it a third of the way.

The first woman to stop us is blonde and has a killer rack. She oohs and aahs over Shortcake and touches my forearm numerous times. She asks how old she is and how much she weighed. I answer her with a smile as Alice stands at my side, smirking. The second and third are together. Two female joggers who just 'had to stop and say hi.' I sit on the bench in the park as they coo all over the sleeping baby. The red head, Tiffany, is hot as fuck. I'm sure I've seen her at the club before. I ask her if she frequents Eclipse at all.

I grunt when Alice kicks my shin. I look at her to see her glaring back in aggravation. I clear my throat and look back at Tiffany and her friend.

"It was nice meeting you, ladies," I say politely. I wink at them both and follow Alice and James as they walk towards the lake.

"Try to keep it in your pants for five damned minutes, Coda," she scolds me. "You haven't got enough chest space for two 'baby-sling-hammock-things'."

I snort and wrap my arm around her shoulders. "Touché."

The walk and the fresh air appear to have woken Shortcake up, and she sits in her seat watching me move around the kitchen as I make dinner later that evening. I like cooking. I don't have a vast array of dishes that I produce, but I make a mean lasagne. Tonight, it's tacos. I turn Bruce up as he sings about being born to run and groove and bop my way from one kitchen side to the other.

Shortcake never takes her eyes from me as I sing to her.

"Baby, this town rips the bones from your back. It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap. We gotta get out while were young, `cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run!"

I play the air guitar and spin around on my heels, using the wooden spoon as a microphone. I bend down and smile at her.

"Hey, blue eyes," I murmur, tracing her cheek with my thumb. "You wanna dance with me?"

Of course, she doesn't answer me, but I take her silence as a yes. I lift her up carefully and dance with her in my arms. I sing and spin, and I can't help but think that she likes it. She's not even a month old, all she does is eat, sleep, and poop, but I see it. The music calms her, just as it does me.

"You gonna be a dancer someday, Shortcake?" I place the spoon in my mouth and pretend as if I'm playing the sax.

I've grown fond of these moments that I have with her. I talk to her, and she looks at me as if I'm fucking crazy. Dancing with her is one thing we do where I feel entirely capable. She is safe in my hands, and it's a good feeling. I would never drop her, and her eyes tell me she knows that. I laugh lightly. Maybe I _am_ crazy. She's far too little to know much of anything.

The heavy knock on the door brings me from my Bruce dance daze, and I turn it down with the remote I had in my pocket.

"Are you expecting someone?" I ask Shortcake who yawns in response. "Me neither."

I make my way across the apartment, unlock, and open the door.

"Can I help you?" I ask the dark-haired woman on the other side of it.

She looks at me strangely, almost in shock, before her large, brown eyes land on Shortcake. My hand immediately tightens on her little leg. Her eyes widen further, and she clears her throat.

"Can I help you?" I repeat, slower, less politely.

Her gaze snaps to me and the surprised look on her face turns steely. The hackles on my neck rise, and I instantly wish I'd left the baby in the safety of her seat.

"Edward Cullen?" she asks. Her accent is clipped, almost English.

"Yeah. And you are?"

She holds out a business card, which I take cautiously. "Isabella Swan, Attorney at Law."

I nod, keeping my stare firmly on her. "And that means what to me?"

My dismissiveness doesn't shake her. "I'm here regarding my sister, Leah Dwyer's, Last Will and Testament."

I go cold. "Uh huh."

She smiles then, but it isn't genuine. I imagine it's how a cobra looks just before it strikes.

"Yes," she continues. "It seems you and I have a lot to discuss."

**Holy here she is, Batman!**

**FYI, in the UK, babies do not need to be named before they are taken from the hospital. I assumed that was the deal everywhere. My mistake.**

**Thanks to the wonderful Purelyamuse for making this shimmer shine so bright.**

**I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year!**

**Here's to 2013!**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	7. Chapter 6

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Six**

**So if you got the guts mister, yeah, if you got the balls**

**If you think it's your time, then step to the line, and bring on your wrecking ball**

**Bring on your wrecking ball**

**Bring on your wrecking ball**

**Come on and take your best shot, let me see what you got**

"Can she just do that?" I growl.

I'm in Carlisle's study, pacing from one side to the other.

I'm pissed. No. I'm_ beyond_ pissed. I'm apoplectic. My skin burns, and my hands fist, ready to punch the fuck out of something.

"What did she say exactly?" Carlisle asks calmly.

I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose. With minimum sleep and the stress of Isabella Swan arriving on my doorstep last night, I am barely hanging on.

"She said that she's an attorney," I snap with disdain. "She said that she's Leah's sister, and that I can't just _take_ Shortcake. _Take_ her. Like I just stole her from the fucking hospital! 'There are rules', she said. 'Laws'." My hands are in my hair, pulling and gripping. "What the fuck, Carlisle? I'm her father! I have every right to have her!"

"Yes," he answers steadily. "Of course you do."

He grimaces and steeples his fingers under his chin. He does it when he's thinking and breaking down all the factors that face him. His surgeon's mind is a thing of beauty.

"And she said you have to have a meeting with the Executor of the Will on Monday?"

I nod and slam my hands against my thighs. I drop my chin to my chest and breathe.

"Our lawyer has been contacted, Edward," he says gently. "I _will_ make sure we have all the facts."

"Can she take Shortcake from me?" I ask.

My voice is quiet. The words are insipid and heavy in my mouth. I am shocked by the way in which the mere idea of her stripping Shortcake from my life seizes me. In five short days, Shortcake has already made such an impact. Forgetting the lack of sleep and the diapers and the fucking bottles, I feel like we've, I don't know, bonded. Our dancing time is fast becoming my favourite part of the day. She's grown a little, and she opens her eyes more and more.

In them, I see trust and dependence.

She trusts and depends on _me_, and I'm not having some snotty-nosed bitch attorney ruining that. I don't know the woman. Shortcake doesn't know the woman. It's not right that Isabella Swan thinks she can simply come out from wherever she's been hiding for the past three weeks and start changing shit.

"I don't know," Carlisle answers. "It all depends on Leah's Will. I doubt that Miss Swan can simply take the baby, but we have to work on the assumption that she can."

"Bullshit," I spit. "She's not getting near her."

For the rest of the day, I spend as much time as I can with Shortcake. I find myself holding her more, despite Mama's protestations about not getting to hold her enough. I feed her and change her, as I have for the past week, but I take my time. I play with her as much as a person can with a three-week-old baby. I lay her on a blanket and lie at her side. If it's simply placing my hand on her small belly, feeling her breathe, it's enough.

I can't ignore the fact that since Miss Isabella Swan, Attorney at Law, knocked on my door, my chest has felt peculiar. I look down at Shortcake, as she sticks out her tongue and tries to stretch her scrunched up legs, and the space between my lungs and heart fills with something I can't determine. It's cold and hopeless and, paradoxically, overwhelmingly empty.

I don't like it.

"I Googled her," Alice says as she enters the living room.

"Who?"

"Isabella Swan," she answers with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

James wanders in behind her carrying a small action figure of Optimus Prime. He gets all the coolest toys. He lies on the other side of Shortcake and gently strokes her head. I smile when I look at his Sponge Bob sweater.

"Find anything interesting?" I ask, even though I couldn't give a flying fuck about her.

"Lots." She smiles. "Although there's nothing about her past. She's been in England for two years. She specialises in business law. She works mostly with acquisitions and mergers, but she freelances and has been head hunted by both Apple _and_ Microsoft."

"Riveting," I mumble.

"She trained with Volturi Lawyers in New York," she continues, "And has been dating the boss's son, Marcus, for nearly three years."

I sigh and close my eyes. "Does any of this matter? I mean, does any of this stop her from taking Shortcake?" My tone is cutting, but I can't help it.

Alice moves behind James and looks down at the baby. "She won't take her."

"You don't know that," I retort. "You didn't see her. She means business."

Her suit alone had screamed intimidation, which was quite a feat considering she wasn't all that big. Despite being petite, she held herself in a way that evoked authority. With her creaseless skirt and heels, she was clearly a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. I supposed that being in a career that was male dominated; she'd learned to hold her own.

Alice's words were soft and curious. "Did she actually say that she was going to take her?"

"No," I say on a long breath. "She just said that we had a lot to discuss and that we had a meeting about Leah's Will on Monday. But . . . I don't know. There's something."

Strangely, apart from looking speechless when she saw Shortcake, Isabella Swan hadn't asked to touch or hold her. She'd simply spoken at me as if I was stupid, ignored the baby in my arms, and left.

"She's as in the dark as you are," Alice placates. "She's not the Executor of the Will, which says a lot."

I'm confused. "How so?"

"Well, if they were as close as I imagine sisters to be, wouldn't she be the Executor? And she's a lawyer. Wouldn't it make sense to give the title to someone who knows about that kind of thing?"

This, I hadn't considered. Maybe that said more than Google ever could.

I look back down at Shortcake and put the tip of my finger into her open palm. Her small digits close around it and squeeze. My heart bursts like a firework when she looks right at me.

She's the most spectacular thing I've ever seen.

=DitD=

Monday morning comes, and I'm an utter mess.

I dress in my most respectable attire of black pants with a white shirt and black tie. I also take out my earrings and tongue stud, in an attempt to look '_normal_,' but I'm still a wreck. My insides churn, and my throat is arid. I haven't slept. Ironically, Shortcake managed four hours before waking for a feed.

At one AM I sat, propped against the pillows in bed with her, watching her on my lap as she fell back to sleep. I placed her on the empty side of my bed when she began to snore softly, and I kept her there all night.

There is no way anyone is taking her away from me. No fucking way.

Jasper drives me into the city along with Carlisle. Alice and Mama are at my apartment with Shortcake. It took all four of them to get me to leave. The invisible rope that has appeared between Shortcake and me over the past week was taut and unforgiving as I moved away from her. The sensation in my stomach is one I liken to something I have only experienced once before in my life.

It is bereavement. And it confounds me.

"You okay?" Jasper asks as we sit idly in traffic.

I shake my head; I don't speak.

"Things will work out," he says. "This will all blow over."

I look at him then with an expression that tells him I don't believe a word he just uttered.

He smiles and turns back to watching the traffic lights. "She's your daughter, man," he continues. "No lawyer or judge is going to take a child away from a guy who works two jobs and owns his apartment outright."

Despite Jasper's optimism, the weight on my shoulders bears down heavily. Two jobs. _Right_. One is only part time, and the other isn't exactly a decent, nine-to-five affair. I swallow hard. Could I lose her because I work at Eclipse?

"I strip for a living," I murmur. "She's a fucking lawyer. Do the math."

The atmosphere in the car changes. Carlisle and Jasper aren't as relaxed as they were when we left my apartment.

My resentment towards Miss Isabella Swan increases. Never have I felt anything but pleasure and satisfaction doing the job I do. I dance—sometimes wearing only a thong—and I get paid for it. I'm paid handsomely. I live to dance. It is what I do. It makes me feel free, untouchable, and sexy as hell.

Now, it feels embarrassing and dirty. I know that's what she will think when she finds out, assuming she doesn't know already. And I can't wait to see the reaction of the Executor when I tell him my latest promotion at work was moving from performing at bachelorette parties to one hundred dollar minimum private dances.

Regardless of the baby oil, the cliché fantasy outfits, the wandering female hands, and the glitter, I work hard for my money. People simply refuse to look past the lurid stereotype that stripping conjures.

I know I'm far from being as clean as a nun's bed sheets, and, in the past, I've made some stupid choices, but I'm honest at everything I do. I'm most honest when I dance. It's truth and expression. Dance has gotten me through a lot in my life.

How ironic it would be if it stopped me from having someone as precious as Shortcake.

"Let's just see what happens," Carlisle says gently, while placing a strong hand on my shoulder.

I nod, but I feel anything but hopeful.

The lawyer's offices are located in a beautiful brownstone in a quiet street a little way out of the city. I give the receptionist my name and sit in a seat, which is disturbingly comfortable. A false sense of security teases my neck, but I ignore it and continue to nibble on my thumbnail. Carlisle observes me but says nothing.

The lawyer that emerges from a long hallway is not what I expect. She is tall with straight blonde hair that sits on her shoulders. She wears grey pants and a white top. She doesn't scream intimidation. She emits calm. My shoulders sag in relief. She smiles when she sees me.

"Mr Cullen?"

I nod.

"Could you come with me, please?"

I nod again and rise from my seat. Carlisle stands with me but stays where he is. I look back at my uncle. He watches me as I follow the lawyer and tries to smile. It doesn't work.

"My name is Jessica Stanley," the lawyer says as we walk down the hallway. "I'm the Executor of Leah's Will."

"Okay," I mumble. I stop myself from pushing my hands into my pockets and follow her into a cavernous office.

My temper twitches and snarls when I see Isabella Swan standing by the large mahogany bookcase located at the back of the room.

She dips her head when she sees me. Her hair is pulled back as it was the last time I saw her. It's severe and makes her face look older than I imagine she actually is. She is in another suit. The skirt is just above the knee. If I didn't despise her as much, I would say she looked sexy.

As it is, I do, and she doesn't.

"Mr. Cullen," she says formally. Her English lilt is present at the end of my name.

"Yeah," I answer, sliding my eyes from her and taking a seat in front of Jessica Stanley.

Isabella Swan sits next to me and crosses her legs. She sits straight, and I realise I'm slouching. I correct myself and look forward. I am determined not to show her that she intimidates me. I am scared shitless, but she doesn't need to see that.

"So," Miss Stanley says brightly. Her attempts to clear the smog of contempt between Isabella Swan and I is noble but fruitless. "We are here today to discuss the Will of Leah Dwyer. Now, this doesn't usually happen. Ordinarily, a copy of the Will would be mailed to you, but Leah has requested that you both attend to hear her final wishes." She pauses and smiles gently. "There is a lot to get through with some areas that need some thorough discussion. I will try my best to make it as easy and clear as possible. Before we begin, is there anything that either of you wish to say?"

I shake my head. I want to see what Leah has to declare before I add anything to the mix. I wait with baited breath for Isabella Swan to speak, but she doesn't. Her silence is aggravating as all fuck.

"Okay," Miss Stanley begins. "I have to ask, Mr Cullen, as the baby's father, are you making any plans to seek alternative care for her?"

I blink in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

Miss Stanley smiles. It's uncomfortable and uneasy. "Will the baby be staying with you? You have no plans to give her up for adoption or-"

I almost choke on the breath I take in. "What? Of course not!"

"Okay," Miss Stanley says gently, lifting her palms from the desk. "I have to ask. The points in the Will are specific to the baby. I needed to make sure as, should you change your mind, the provisions of the Will will also change."

"She's staying with me," I growl while shooting a surreptitious glance to my left.

"Very well," she continues. "We will start with property and finances."

Apparently, Leah Dwyer was quite well off.

It's a little strange to me that a student would have upward of fifty thousand dollars in her account, but who am I to judge? I sit up even straighter when I discover that the full-time carer of Shortcake will receive a further thousand dollars a month towards her upkeep. The rest is placed in a bond for her. This, I like. I have to think about adding to that myself. Girl will be going to college.

Leah didn't own any property, but some trinkets and pictures are going to people I don't know or care about.

The Will is detailed. As I sit listening to Miss Stanley, a clearer picture of Leah Dwyer starts to emerge. I imagine her as a loner. She has friends who are mentioned in the Will, but they are few. She also isn't close to her family. Isabella Swan's name isn't mentioned once, neither are her parents.

I look around myself discreetly.

Where _are_ her parents? Wouldn't they be here? _Shouldn't_ they be here?

Miss Stanley places the sheet of paper she has been reading from down and picks up the next one. "Now, there are some provisions here that I need to go through with you."

I fidget in my seat and run a hand through my hair. I catch Isabella Swan's stare before she looks away quickly.

"There is a letter for each of you written by Miss Dwyer which will be given, per her request, on the baby's first birthday. As Mr. Cullen is the baby's father, and he has agreed to take custody of her, I can continue on."

"Have you?" Isabella Swan interjects swiftly.

I turn to her slowly. "Have I what?"

"Have you taken custody of her?"

I frown. "What do you mean? She lives with me. I'm her father."

"Yes, but have you signed a birth certificate?" Her tone is condescending.

I clear my throat. "No."

"Hmm," she replies. "You might want to get that done."

"I will," I bite back.

"I can help you with that," Miss Stanley adds, garnering a narrow-eyed look from the pretentious bitch.

I smile tightly. "Thanks."

She smiles back before continuing to read. "Right, so . . . Miss Dwyer has requested that Mr. Cullen and Isabella Swan share joint custody of the baby-"

I explode out of my chair. "What!?"

Miss Stanley looks shocked by my sudden outburst, but, to her credit, her voice is composed. "Please, Mr. Cullen. Calm down."

"Calm down?" I huff a breath of you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me. "She's _my_ daughter!"

"And she will _still_ be your daughter," Isabella Swan interrupts again with an exasperated sigh. "We just have equal rights in bringing her up."

I glare at her, stunned by her arrogance. "Equal rights, huh?"

She nods. Her face is completely inert.

"Equal rights," I snarl. "Like you were there when she was in the NICU, or, equal rights, like you were there when she was crying until all hours of the fuc-"

"Mr. Cullen," Miss Stanley says firmly. My head snaps in her direction. "I understand your shock at this, I do, but there _are_ options."

I look back at her warily. "Options."

"Yes. If you take a seat, I can talk you through them."

I realise I'm making a scene, but this shit is important. I adjust my tie and gradually sit back down. My pulse thunders in my ears and my palms are thick with sweat. How can this be? Why would Leah want joint custody for Shortcake? Did she think me incapable?

I mentally slap myself.

_Fucking girl barely knew you; of course, she would want her sister to be a part of her daughter's life._

"Now," Miss Stanley resumes, brushing her hair back behind her ears. "Miss Dwyer has not stated anything about the two of you cohabiting"—_thank fuck_— "and the baby will remain living with Mr. Cullen for the majority of the time; however, she does want the two of you to meet at least twice a week to spend time with the baby together."

I exhale heavily down my nose. This is bullshit.

"And your addresses must be no more than two miles apart."

I drop my hand down heavily onto the arm of the seat. "She can do that?" I ask in bewilderment. "She can dictate where we live?"

Miss Stanley blinks. "Yes."

"I'm not moving," I say firmly. "You can kiss my ass."

There is a ghost of a smile on Miss Stanley's face. "I'm sure that Miss Swan, here, can accommodate that. She does, after all, need to find somewhere to live. Isn't that right, Isabella?"

I look over at Isabella Swan. She rolls her eyes. "Yes, thank you, Jess."

Jess? I suddenly feel like I'm missing something.

"Is there something here I need to be made aware of?" I ask, pointing my finger at the space between the two women.

"No," Isabella Swan answers quickly. "Jessica and I know each other through law school is all."

"And I was friends with your step-sister," Miss Stanley adds with a hint of annoyance.

I blanch. "_Step_-sister? You're not even blood relatives?"

Isabella Swan looks straight at me. Her face is the most emotional I have seen it so far. That is to say, she scowls and purses her lips ever so slightly. I've hit a nerve.

"Blood is not the only characteristic of what defines a sister, Mr. Cullen," she hisses. Her eyes flash with something indiscernible.

"I guess so," I reply quietly. I turn back to Miss Stanley. "You said something about options."

She nods. "The provisions within this Will can be contested. Any element that you feel is unjust, incorrect, or you have reason to disagree with, can be disputed."

I rub my chin. "So I could contest join custody?"

"Yes."

"Why would you want to?" Isabella Swan turns to me with a cocked eyebrow. "If anything, it should be _me_ who is contesting."

My skin ripples with hatred. "And why is that?"

She smirks. "I'm not entirely sure that a stripper's bachelor pad is somewhere a baby should be."

Bingo.

Evidently, my sister isn't the only person who has been Googling shit.

"Something you have to say about my job, Miss Swan?" My voice is low and dares her to say one more fucking word.

"Not at all," she retorts. "I just hope that you understand the lifestyle changes you will have to make now that you have—what _is_ the baby's name?"

"Shortcake," I spit.

Isabella Swan's eyebrows almost meet her hairline. "Shortcake? How . . . inventive."

"It's a nickname," I add, ignoring her disdain. "I haven't thought of a name yet."

I haven't thought about names, period.

"She'll need one for the birth certificate," Miss Stanley contributes.

I rub my neck. "Yeah."

Isabella Swan persists. "A revolving door of women is not conducive to a caring, stable home. The baby needs routine, love, safety; someone she can depend on, Mr. Cullen. Are you capable of providing all of that?"

"I've managed so far," I quip, disregarding the revolving door of women comment.

"For five days," she counters sardonically. "How will you fair for the next eighteen years?"

I look intently at the woman before me and shake my head. "You don't know me, lady," I murmur.

"Maybe not," she replies. "But my concerns are _still_ valid." Her stare is penetrative and unnerving.

I shift in my seat and turn back to Miss Stanley. "Are we done?"

"Yes."

I stand without being dismissed. I feel bad for my behaviour in Miss Stanley's office, but I need to get the fuck away from Isabella Swan. I hear her call my name, as I open the door, but I keep walking.

Storming down the hallway, I see Carlisle still sitting in his comfortable chair, and he looks back at me. My face must say it all. He stands quickly with a concerned scowl above his eyes.

"What?" he asks. I notice him look past me as Isabella Swan calls my name again.

My jaw tenses. "Fuck." I push my hands deep into my pockets. I am pretty sure, should she come near me, I'll strangle her.

Carlisle puts a hand on my elbow when I try to move away. My eyes meet his in question.

"Wait," he says quietly.

"Mr. Cullen," Isabella Swan repeats as she approaches. She looks at me with irritation, but I couldn't give a shit. I stand as straight as I can, towering over her by at least a foot.

"Yeah?"

Her gaze moves to Carlisle. She moves her expensive looking, leather document bag from her one hand to the other, and holds the free one out to him. He looks at it and then back at me before he takes it.

"Isabella Swan," she says with a small smile when their palms meet.

"Doctor Carlisle Cullen," he replies.

The smile grows. "Ah, you're Mr. Cullen's uncle."

Is there anything this woman _doesn't_ know?

"I am."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Doctor. I have had clients who have been patients of yours. Your reputation precedes you."

Did Carlisle actually smile back? I knock him with the same elbow he grabbed. He clears his throat and takes a step back from her.

"What do you want, Miss Swan?" I ask curtly with no inflection.

Her eyes narrow markedly. "We need to discuss the timetable for our meetings."

I snort sarcastically. "Timetable?"

She sighs and cocks her hip. She's losing patience. "I need to make sure that I am free to see the baby. It helps if I know what your weekly routine is."

I cross my arms over my chest. "I'll have to have a look. My '_timetable_' changes weekly."

She licks her lips and looks down to her bag. She pulls out another card and holds it out to me. "I gave you a card a few days ago, but in case you have lost it, you can have this."

I clench my teeth and take it from her. The card she gave me a few days ago is long gone. I threw it in the trash the moment she left my apartment.

"My cell number and office number are on there as well as my email." She clips her bag shut and smiles at Carlisle. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor."

She looks at me, and the smile vanishes. "I'll look forward to hearing from you."

I smile wryly. "Sure."

I don't even watch her as she leaves.

=DitD=

"She'll be fine."

"Are you sure? She can get really restless."

Mama Esme rolls her eyes. "I _have_ looked after babies before, Edward."

"I know," I mumble as I pass Shortcake to her. "I just-"

"Worry like a father should," she finishes for me, smiling proudly.

It's my first night back at Eclipse. It's also the first night away from Shortcake, and I'm entirely torn. I want to get back to work. I miss it. I miss the guys, the girls, the dancing, but I'm anxious about leaving Shortcake. I know she'll be safe, of course, but I can't shake the heavy sense of unease.

I look down at the baby in Mama's arms and run my index finger down her tiny face. "She likes to dance," I say, keeping my eyes on Shortcake. "If she gets restless, or she wakes up, and feeding doesn't help, she likes to dance. I play Springsteen, and it relaxes her."

Mama nods. When I look at her, I see her expression is indecipherable.

I exhale a heavy breath. "Okay," I murmur. "I'm going."

I make it to the front door before the invisible rope that connects me to Shortcake has me turning around. "You have the club number, right?"

She nods.

"And my cell?"

"Edward."

"Fine, I'm going."

As always, the line outside Eclipse is stretching around the block. They're all women. They whoop and holler at me as I make my way inside, and the familiar feeling of power and seduction starts to rumble deep inside my stomach. Inside, the smell of deep rich aftershave and alcohol permeates every inch of the club. It seeps through the paint on the walls and covers everybody and everything that enters. It's like an aphrodisiac, making my blood seep into _every_ inch of my body.

Emmett is on the stage completing his sound check. He's dressed in ripped, stone washed jeans, and nothing else. Not even shoes.

He smiles widely when he sees me. "Coda!"

We bump fists and I shake hands with Eric our resident DJ.

"You're back," Emmett says, taking a pull on his electronic cigarette. The width of his pupils tells me that he's high, so the appearance of the E cigarette makes me smile: he does the dust, but tries to quit the nicotine.

I open my arms wide. "Miss me?"

"My bank account did!" He slaps my shoulder. "You good? Everything okay?"

"Everything's good," I reply. "Just get me on the stage, man."

His laugh echoes around the room. "That's what we like!"

In the back, all the guys are getting ready. Hair is gelled. Moisturiser is being rubbed in unimaginable places, blunts are being smoked, and lines are being cut and hit. Mike is shaving his chest alongside Sam, while Pete and Tyler are fixing their thongs and preparing their props.

I'm not a big user of props. As long as I have my stage and the music, I'm good to go.

We always start the night together. All five of us dance to the usual _It's Raining Men_ or Prince's _Kiss_, but it's VIP night so it's all about _Pour Some Sugar. _My hair is slicked back a la American Psycho, and we all dress in three-piece suits and ties. Velcro is used to hold all our costumes together, so it's easier to rip off, trouble is, they're a bitch to get on.

Tyler passes me a bottle of Jack and I knock it back once, twice, three times. I feel wired tonight. I'm aching to get on the stage and dance, but I can't stop thinking about Shortcake. I wonder if she's gone to sleep okay, or if she's crying. I panic and go through a checklist of things that I put in her bag: bottles, diapers, onesie, pacifier.

Have I forgotten anything?

"You look like shit, dude," Tyler drawls at my side. "Have some of this."

He hands me the blunt and I take a deep drag. I need to calm down. I hear Emmett on stage riling up the women, and I close my eyes. I have to stay focussed. I hum to myself, imagining the dance moves I know by heart.

Imagining the beat, the rhythm, the melody.

And then the lights dim. Emmett introduces us as 'the best fucking dance group in the country.'

The naked part is always implied.

The lights go off, the opening chords of Def Leppard start, and the place erupts with whistles and catcalls. I stand with my boys, front and centre, and take a deep breath. My lungs burn with sexual energy. It drenches everything. Every ounce of it comes from the women in the club. They ooze it.

My cock stirs and I stretch my neck from side to side.

_Three . . . two . . . one . . ._

The curtain falls back and we're faced with five hundred women, baying for our bodies.

**Holy bitchtastic Bella, Batman!**

**She's fun to write.**

**Apologies for any/all legal mistakes. I am not a lawyer.**

**Love to Purelyamuse for being my punctuation goddess.**

**Happy New Year to all. May it be healthy and happy.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	8. Chapter 7

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Seven**

**You're born with nothing, **

**and better off that way, **

**Soon as you've got something they send **

**someone to try and take it away**

**To:** Isabella Swan

**Subject:** Timetable

Miss Swan,

I am available Monday, Thursday, Saturday.

Edward Cullen

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Edward Cullen

**Subject:** RE: Timetable

Mr Cullen,

Are these evenings or during the day? Evenings work better for me.

Isabella Swan

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Isabella Swan

**Subject:** RE: RE: Timetable

Miss Swan,

Monday is both. Thursday is evening and Saturday is during the day.

Edward Cullen.

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Edward Cullen

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: Timetable

Mr Cullen,

Monday would be good. What time in the evening?

Isabella Swan

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Isabella Swan

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: Timetable

Miss Swan,

Any time after 6:30.

Edward Cullen

Sent from my iPhone

We've been communicating like this for two days. I send an email. She sends one back. She sends me an email. I send one back. Fucking woman. Even the tone of her emails pisses me off. She is so fucking proper and arrogant. The only thing I find interesting about the emails I've received is that we share an affinity for Apple products.

She had been headhunted by them after all. _La dee fucking dah._

I have Shortcake resting on my lap as I lie on the sofa. My head is spinning. Last night, the club was awesome. It was great to be back. The women were wild, and I made a killing. I made over three hundred dollars with my solo dance alone; although, I drank far too much.

My concern for Shortcake was making me lose focus, so I hit the liquor. I'm now wishing I hadn't. I'm just thankful that Mama Esme kept Shortcake until lunch.

I have to confess—hangover aside—I _did_ miss her.

As though she knows I'm thinking about her, Shortcake stretches and makes a squeaking noise.

"Yeah?" I murmur, placing my index finger in her palm. "What's up?"

She looks back at me—her eyes blue and beautiful—and the side of her mouth lifts. I blink.

"Did you just smile?" I sit up straighter and stare down at her. "Are you smiling at me?"

She does it again, and it's as if someone has suddenly wiped away the throbbing that was suffocating my skull. I no longer feel as if I have a power drill to my temple. She shows me her perfectly pink gums again, and pulls my finger to her mouth. I smile and place my free hand on her belly. She's grown and put weight on. She's no longer fragile minute but fragile small.

"We have to think of a name for you," I whisper. "As cute as Shortcake is, I doubt you'll appreciate it when you're forty."

She smiles again and continues to grip my finger.

"Hmm," I muse as I rub her stomach gently. "What name?"

I am unexpectedly struck with a memory of my mother. I'm about five years old. She's sitting on a swing with me on her lap. I'm facing her. The sun shines behind her, creating a golden halo around her hair, and her laughter echoes around me like water spilling over stones in a river. I close my eyes and hold the sound as it resonates through me. She was so full of life.

I open my eyes and look down at my daughter who is also full of life and equally precious. I smile back at her. "Perfect."

=DitD=

I watch as Mama Esme's lip quivers slightly. In her hand is Shortcake's birth certificate.

"I—I don't know what to say," she says with a staggered breath.

"Say you like it," I reply.

She looks at me with large green eyes filled with tears. "I love it, Edward. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Carlisle grins at me and nods. "Nice," he utters. "It suits her."

I look down at Shortcake who's in her car seat bundled up like a taco. It does suit her. To me, she will _always_ be Shortcake. To everyone else, however, she will be Elizabeth Marie Cullen. Marie was Mama Esme's mother; the only grandmother Alice and I knew. Elizabeth Esme didn't quite fit. It seems Mama doesn't seem to care.

"I hope you're keeping Alice Esme for your next daughter," my sister chirps from her seat in the kitchen. She's helping James and William colour a picture of The Hulk.

"Are you shitting me?" I blurt back at her. "I'm having a goddamn vasectomy!"

"Edward," Mama chides with a smirk.

"What?" I ask in a high voice. "My sperm can apparently leap tall buildings in a single bound and get through super strength latex. What other option do I have?"

"Abstinence," Carlisle answers with as straight a face as I've ever seen.

I can barely hold in my laugh. It explodes out of me. "Yeah, sure, Carlisle.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "It was worth a try."

We all head to the kitchen where Mama has made a drool-worthy dinner. As a family, we try to get together as often as we can. Another positive from having Shortcake is that I seem to see a lot more of my family. Alice gives Shortcake her bottle while I eat. She coos over her, cuddles, and kisses her. I glance over at Jasper who is watching his wife carefully.

He catches my eye and sighs. "You got the number of that vasectomy place?" he asks in a hushed voice. We both laugh when Alice smacks his shoulder.

"Oh, you!" Alice grumbles with narrowed eyes that dance with mirth.

"It suits you, darling," Mama adds from across the table. Alice smiles.

"You're not helping!" Jasper laughs.

Mama shrugs. "I want to be up to my knees in grandchildren. Sue me."

I take Shortcake from my sister and hold her against me. Her eyes close little by little and the movement of her pacifier slows. She smells of warm cookies.

"Isabella Swan is coming over tonight," I say as Shortcake's breath whispers against my neck.

"First meeting, huh?" Jasper says, leaning back in his seat. "You need a wingman?"

I smile in thanks. "No. I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You've changed your tune," Alice adds, pulling James onto her knee.

"Not really," I counter, glancing at my nephew. "I still think she's a pretentious, arrogant b-i-t-c-h. But she's Shortcake's aunt. I figure, despite her being an a-s-s-h-o-l-e, I'll support Leah's wishes."

Mama squeezes the back of my neck lovingly. "I think that's a good idea."

A good idea it may be, but it tastes like shit on my tongue. I don't trust Isabella Swan. I don't like her. I don't know her. All I know is she has attitude about me and what I do. She can kiss my ass. I'm Shortcake's father and always will be, regardless of how I make my money.

Bitch has a law degree so she thinks she can treat me a certain way?

Not happening.

=DitD=

Later that evening, Shortcake is asleep in her bassinet when there is a knock on the door of my apartment. I glance at my watch. It's six-thirty. Trust the lawyer to be so damned punctual.

I open the door with a sigh, but instantly perk up when I see Charlotte standing on the other side of it, dressed in leather pants and heels. Her black hair is wavy down her shoulders, and her tits look epic in a red bustier.

I lean my forearm on the doorframe and smirk. "Well, good evening, Miss West. How are you?"

"All the better for seeing you," she purrs before sauntering past me into the apartment.

I laugh and close the door. "As happy as I am to see you, I'm expecting company."

She purses her rouge coloured lips and puts her hands on her hips. "I can share."

She moves towards me like liquid sex and grabs for my jean's fly. This is how we are. No talking. No bullshit romance or candlelit dinners. It's raw and straight to the point. She licks at my mouth and smoothes a hand across my crotch. I'm halfway hard for her, and she knows it. It's like Pavlov's Dogs. My cock hears Charlotte and is instantly ready.

I glance across the room to where Shortcake's bassinet is on its stand, behind the sofa. Charlotte doesn't seem to have noticed and is busy unfastening my belt. I hold her wrists while chuckling at her eagerness.

"Charlotte," I chide softly. "We can't."

"I'll be quick," she promises.

Oh, I know.

She and I have had trysts in the most unlikely of places in the quickest times possible. I groan and lick my lips as she nibbles on my collarbone and pops every button of my fly. Her knuckles graze my dick, and it twitches in gratitude. Two and a half weeks may not seem like a long time to go without sex, but, for my libido, it's torture. I gasp when her small palm grips me tightly, and my head drops back in ecstasy.

"I've missed this," she whispers in my ear. "Big and hard in my hand."

Yeah. She likes the dirty talk.

She moves her hand up and down me languidly, teasingly. I grit my teeth and grab her tit. I squeeze.

"I missed this," I say, playing along. "Big and soft in my hand."

She hums against my neck and starts to drop to her knees. I know I should stop her. I know this isn't what I should be doing. But she looks so fucking hot kneeling down in front of me, licking her lips, and squirming in her tight as all fuck leather pants.

I grunt when she places a kiss on the tip of my dick. And then groan in annoyance when another knock comes from the door.

Fuck my life.

Charlotte looks up at me and grins. "Your guest?"

I clear my throat and push her hand away, putting my cock back in my pants, willing my hard-on to disappear.

"Yes," I hiss. "But it's not like that, Charlotte." I grip her forearm. "Get up."

She laughs at my panic and fluffs her hair, ever calm, cool, and collected. I watch her and rub my hand across my mouth.

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

She shrugs and smiles. "No problem."

Simple. Straight forward.

I open the door. This time Isabella Swan _is_ on the other side of it. Her gaze is on me before her eyes snap to Charlotte. Something passes over them that I'm unable to distinguish, but I notice the temperature around her drops a few more degrees.

"Mr. Cullen," she says in her formal, haughty way. "I'm a little early. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Not at all," I reply before winking at Charlotte.

Charlotte smirks as she looks Isabella Swan up and down. I know what she's thinking; we've shared before, and, even though I loathe the woman standing at my door, I can't help but think it's sexy as hell.

"I'll just be leaving now." She glances back at me. "Call me, Coda."

"Sure."

She leaves the apartment, and I gesture with my hand for Miss Swan to enter. She does so gradually. I notice her usual arrogant swagger has toned down a little. Closing the door behind us, I suddenly feel nervous, out of my depth.

"Can I get you a coffee?" I ask, rubbing the back of my neck with my hand.

"Thanks," she answers, facing away from me. "Black." She's looking around my apartment, and I note her eyes linger on the wall of guitars.

"Make yourself at home," I say dryly as I wander to the kitchen.

I keep watching her in my periphery as I grab cups and sugar. She places her bag down onto one of the chairs and walks over to my bookcase. She puts her hands into her armpits as she reads each spine. I wonder if she sees my copy of the Kama Sutra and smile to myself. She's probably never seen one before. She's still in her office wear, which isn't surprising. I wonder fleetingly what she'd look like in jeans and a sweater. I doubt she ever lets loose. I doubt she knows how.

I imagine she sits with her law books every night, drinking Moet champagne with her lawyer boyfriend while eating caviar. She has an air of wealth and pompousness about her, which grates on my nerves. Wealthy, educated people don't bother me. I have money myself, and I'm far from stupid, which makes her arrogance all the more unnecessary. She's a fucking lawyer, for Christ's sake. Carlisle is a paediatric surgeon. He saves lives—children's lives—and I doubt he knows what arrogance is.

I wander back to her and hand her the coffee cup. She mutters a quiet thanks and continues making her way around the living room.

"Do you play?" she asks, pointing at the Fender Strat on the wall.

"I try," I answer noncommittally with a shrug.

She nods and sips her coffee. Somehow, the room feels smaller with her in it. I'm on edge in my own apartment, and it's unnerving as hell. Her gaze falls on two of my paintings that hang above the fireplace. I completed them about two years ago. They are abstract designs of black and varying shades of red. They were an attempt at showing my heartbreak over losing my mom. I'm not sure I succeeded (there's not enough paint in the world), but I like them.

I watch as her eyes narrow the longer she looks at them, and I cough in discomfort. I'm not sure I like her looking at my work, regardless of whether or not she likes it.

"This is beautiful," she murmurs.

I frown at her in surprise and nod, not saying a word.

"Are they done by a local artist?" She looks at me then; her brown eyes are intense and deep reaching.

"Kinda," I answer quickly. "You like art?"

She shrugs and gives a wry smile. "I like art that moves me."

"And this moves you?"

She nods slowly. "It's poignant. The artist is grief stricken."

Well, fuck.

I exhale a bewildered breath and direct her to where Shortcake is asleep. She places her cup on the table and leans over the bassinet. She smiles wistfully as she looks at her. Her face changes when she smiles. Her skin loses its tight severity, and her eyes lighten. It suits her.

"She's grown," she murmurs.

I notice she makes no move to touch her.

"Yeah, well, she eats like a damn horse."

"Leah always had an appetite."

This information makes my stomach twist. "She did?"

"She was always eating and had a figure to die for." She shakes her head as if this fact perturbs her greatly.

I continue to stand there feeling pretty useless as she gazes down at Shortcake. "You can pick her up," I say, curter than I wanted. Her indifference about touching her annoys me. She's her niece, but she's also my daughter. She should be fucking privileged to hold her.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to disturb her."

I scoff. "She can sleep through a tank coming through the fucking house."

Isabella Swan's head snaps up and irritation flashes in her stare. "Or a rendezvous with your girlfriend?"

I glare back at her. Firstly, because her tone is cutting and accusatory, and, second, because she doesn't know shit about me.

"Excuse me?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest. Her ability to go from zero to bitch so quickly is incredible and rather disconcerting.

She stands up straight. "Don't you think it's a little inappropriate to have your girlfriend rubbing herself all over you like a cat in heat when there is a baby in the room? A baby who _you_ should be looking after."

I laugh without humour. "You are something else," I spit. "You think because you have a file, or whatever the shit it is you lawyer folk have, that you know something about my life."

My hackles rise and anger courses through me. I am livid she thinks she can come here and tell me how to live my life.

"I just say what I see," she retorts. "And when you have red lipstick all over you, it's not hard to deduce what the two of you were doing."

I resist the urge to wipe at my face, and I smirk dangerously. "Now, now, Miss Swan. You wouldn't be jealous, would you?"

It's a low blow, even for me, but something inside—something I can't control or name—wants to make her as incensed as I am.

"Jealous?" she explodes. "Are you kidding me? What the hell would I be jealous of?" She takes a step towards me. "Am I jealous of your promiscuous lifestyle? Jealous of your blasé attitude towards responsibility? Or am I jealous that you have no understanding of what it means to treat people with respect?"

I drop my arms and fist my hands at my sides. Rage makes my fingers squeeze. I am completely perplexed. "You think I should respect you? Why? Because you are a lawyer?" I ask disbelievingly.

Is she for real?

Her voice is loud and acidic when it bursts from her. "Not me, Mr. Cullen. My sister!"

The room seems to pulse with our animosity. The walls bend and ripple against the hostility that is radiating from both of us. The air is thick with ire, and we are both breathing heavily. Her words hang around my neck like a lead weight.

Respect? She thinks I didn't respect Leah? Christ. I think back to the night my daughter was conceived. The night I brought Leah back to my apartment. The night I bent her over the sofa and fucked her.

Shit.

I blink at Isabella Swan. She glares right back, but I notice her eyes are shimmering.

Is she going to cry?

Before either one of us can say anything, Shortcake starts to grumble from her bassinet. Our raised voices have woken her up. I curse and move across the room towards her. She stretches her arms as she always does when she's just woken up and starts to cry in small bursts of noise.

"Hey, baby," I whisper as I move the blanket and pick her up. "It's okay."

I hold her against me, rubbing her back as she squirms and whines into my neck. I look back at Isabella Swan to see her watching me. She looks away momentarily and rubs a hand down the side of her face.

I exhale and speak as calmly as I can with Shortcake in my arms.

"I may have done some things that are less than honourable, Miss Swan," I say. "But your opinion of me isn't right. Or fair. Yes, I was with your sister for one night. Yes, maybe it was irresponsible, but people have one-night-stands all the damned time. And, regardless of what you think of me, I used a condom. I only did to her what she wanted me to. I didn't hurt her, and we had a good time."

I take a step towards her, cupping the back of Shortcake's head. "I may be a lot of things, and you can look at me with those judgemental eyes all you want, but I _am _taking responsibility for what we did."

I pause and look away. "I didn't even know she was pregnant. Leah never told me. The night she died—the night Shortcake was born—was the night I found out about her. I'm trying. I'm doing what I can. I didn't ask for this-"

"And Leah did?"

I sigh and shake my head. "Neither of us did. That's not what I meant." My voice rising again. She doesn't understand, and it frustrates the hell out of me. I look back at her. "I'm sorry that this happened. I'm sorry that your sister died, I am. But what's to say that, had she lived, I would have even known I _had_ a daughter. Would that have been fair?"

Her voice is still acerbic. "Would it have made a difference?"

"Of course," I snap back. "I want to be the kind of father my asshole father never was. I want to be there. I'm stepping up. I want to be held accountable and be part of her life. I hate the situation, Miss Swan. I hate that Shortcake will grow up without a mother; I wouldn't wish that on anyone, believe me. And I'm sorry that you have lost someone special to you. But_ I_ will be there for my daughter no matter what. And your anger, as justified as you consider it to be, won't change that."

I'm taken aback by the words that have come out of my mouth, but I mean every single one of them. I'm in this for the long haul. Until my dying day, I will be Shortcake's father. I will protect her, look after her, and run off any fuckers who mess with her.

"As much as you hate me, or this situation," I continue quietly. "Leah must have seen something in me for her to put me in the Will. She trusted me with our baby. Why don't you?"

Isabella Swan looks away and puts her hands on her hips. "I don't know what the hell she was thinking."

I bite my tongue and wait. Shortcake nuzzles my collarbone and grunts small breaths against my skin.

"This whole state of affairs is just . . ." She trails off, looking at the floor. She looks lost, and, for a brief moment, I feel sorry for her.

"Leah was . . . not the kind of girl who would have a one-night stand," she adds softly. "She was always the sensible one." I see a whisper of a smile. She takes a deep breath and looks up at me. "I respect your decision to keep the baby and look after her, Mr. Cullen. I do. And I don't hate _you_."

She glances quickly at Shortcake, and her face pinches. "I hate that Leah's stupidity is the reason she died." A muscle in her jaw twitches. "After everything that she—I thought she was . . ."

I frown at her words, mystified and fuming at her implication, but, before I can defend myself or my daughter, I see something on Isabella Swan's face I've seen on my own many times before: grief.

Knowing grief the way I do, I know what she's feeling runs deep. It clouds the mind and festers under the skin, waiting for the right opportunity to latch onto some unsuspecting bastard with fury and hate. It's in the tension of her shoulders and in her hands as they fist together in an uncharacteristic display of restlessness. She _is_ angry. She is hurting.

It occurs to me quickly there is more to this woman than I originally thought. Maybe she isn't the shallow puddle I assumed her to be.

"Look, Miss Swan," I say softly. "If there's anything I can do to help with . . . whatever-"

She shakes her head and discreetly wipes at her cheek. "It's alright," she replies, mask firmly back on. "Thanks." She tries to smile, but it falls quickly.

"Are you sure you don't want to hold Elizabeth?" I ask, moving towards her slowly.

Her brows bunch together. "Elizabeth? Not Shortcake?"

"No," I reply. "I mean, Shortcake will probably stick until she's a teenager and she hates me. But, um, Elizabeth was my mother's name. Elizabeth Marie."

She stares at me, wide-eyed. "Marie? That's _my_ middle name name."

"No shit?"

She coughs a laugh and shakes her head. "No shit." She looks at Shortcake, and her eyes soften infinitesimally. "It's lovely. It suits her."

"Yeah," I agree. "I like it."

The room is quiet then, apart from Shortcake's small squeaks and grunts. She's restless and hungry.

"She needs a feed," I say, feeling a little uneasy with the gentle hush.

"Sure," she says swiftly. "I'd better get going."

I'm puzzled. "Okay?"

She picks up her bag from the sofa. Sensing my irritation at her fleeting visit, she turns to me. "I would stay longer, but I have some things I need to take care of. It's—it's Leah's funeral tomorrow."

_Fuck._

"Shit," I whisper. "I'm sorry; I didn't know."

"It's fine," she retorts, waving a dismissive hand. "Why would you?"

The warmth of Shortcake in my arms absolves the sting of her words. She wanders across the apartment to the door and pauses. She turns gradually, and I notice she's biting her lip. It's coy and looks out of place on her otherwise uncompromising face.

"You are welcome to come," she says quietly. "I mean, if you want to."

I nod. "I'd like to." I rub my hand down Shortcake's back. "I feel like I owe it to both of them."

She regards me then, and I can't help but feel like an insect under a microscope. "Maybe we can go to the park afterwards," she says quickly before gesturing to the baby. "I'd like to spend some more time with her."

"Okay," I answer dumbly.

Her desire to see her niece doesn't fit her wariness, or inability to hold and begin bonding with her.

Whatever. I guess it's progress. Truthfully, it makes little difference to me whether she upholds her side of Leah's request or not. Although, I know from experience, any connection to Leah would be good for Shortcake.

She opens my front door and makes her way through it. She glances back at me. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," I reply.

"And call me Isabella."

I blink and nod. "Sure."

She dips her head and makes her way down the hall to the elevator, and, this time, I watch her leave.

**Holy late post, Batman!**

**Sorry for that. Some people just like to be mean. I regrouped. We're all good.**

**Thanks to everyone for your endless support. It's not why I write fic, but it is wonderful and invaluable nonetheless.**

**Kisses to Purelyamuse for helping make this fic readable. **

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	9. Chapter 8

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Eight**

**These are better days, baby**

**Yeah, there's better days shining through.**

**These are better days, baby.**

**Better days with a girl like you.**

It's a beautiful autumnal day.

Leaves litter the churchyard, and the sun is low in the sky. It's cold, the wind biting. Underneath a tonne of blankets, I have Shortcake dressed in a cream dress, tights, and a hat that has a bobble on it. I have to confess, she looks cute as hell. The tights were an interesting experience. Thank God, Alice was there to help me.

She's still with me, pushing Shortcake's stroller as we make our way to the church. Mama Esme is also with us. As soon as Isabella invited me to Leah's funeral, I knew they would both want to come. That's just how they are. They care.

There are a few people around, all dressed in black. There's nobody I recognise, which makes me even more appreciative that they've accompanied me. It's just as cold inside the church as it is outside. People huddle together on the pews, whispering and glancing awkwardly at one another.

Flowers and candles cover a large table at the front, making the air smell of jasmine. Amongst all of that, there's a gold framed picture of Leah: beautiful, blonde, and blue-eyed. My heart stammers in my chest, and I immediately reach for my daughter.

I pick Shortcake out of her stroller—blankets and all—and hold her in my arms as we take our seats. She's fast asleep against me, snoring gently, hands fisted in the cuffs of her small cardigan.

I look around, curious to see if Leah's parents are here. After seeing Isabella last night, I can't help but think there is something more regarding the family she comes from. Her parents weren't at the reading of the Will, which struck me as odd. Maybe they are estranged. No. That doesn't seem to fit. I know Leah and Isabella are stepsisters, so surely there would be one parent.

I look over the church aisle, and Jessica Stanley nods and smiles gently at me. I return the gesture just as the church is filled with the exquisite notes of Eva Cassidy's Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

We all stand, and the church doors open to allow six men to enter, carrying Leah's coffin.

My chest abruptly pulls in two different directions. I find myself holding Shortcake as tightly as I ever have, protectiveness coursing through me. My little girl will never know her mother, and the pain of that fact lances through me with white-hot clarity. Guilt, grief, and responsibility weigh heavily on my shoulders as the coffin passes us, and my lips immediately find Shortcake's cheek.

I kiss her.

For the first time ever. I kiss her.

I kiss her because I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.

I kiss her because she deserves more; she deserves to have a mother.

And I kiss her because I miss mine.

I feel Mama Esme's hand on my back and close my eyes, breathing Shortcake's luscious powdery scent into my lungs. When I open them again, I see Isabella walking behind the coffin, head down, arm linked with a red haired woman who looks too young to be her mother. She looks composed, but her knuckles are white as they grip her friend.

I feel for her.

Despite our differences, I know how hard it is, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody. I remember taking those fuck awful steps behind my mother's coffin, practically carrying Alice at my side, holding back the tears and pain that filled me from the feet up.

The coffin is placed down carefully, and we all sit.

The priest begins to speak. He thanks us for attending and tells the story of a small, blonde haired girl who wanted to be a gymnast. She is funny and plays practical jokes on her father, Phil. She is popular with the boys until Harrison Corly breaks her heart. She plots revenge on his unsuspecting truck. The results, he says, are not pretty.

She graduates high school in the top three of her class and attends college with dreams of being a lawyer, like her father. She has many friends—many are here today—who help her cope with the tragic loss of her father and stepmother, Renee, behind the wheel of their car, one raining night on a near empty highway.

Jesus.

I look down at Shortcake as he continues. I want to remember as much as I can for her. I want to be able to tell her things about her mother. I didn't know her, and that truth still makes me cringe with shame, but I want Shortcake to know her. She deserves that. I look at the back of Isabella's head. _She_ deserves to give her niece that much.

The priest finishes, and Isabella stands slowly, making her way to the lectern. She looks nervous as all fuck. She keeps her eyes centred on her piece of paper, and, when she initially starts reading, her voice is small and timid.

This is not the Isabella Swan I know.

"Thank you all for coming here today," she says with a tight smile. "It means a lot that so many of you came to say goodbye." She takes a breath and licks her lips. "I first met Leah when I was ten, and she was eight. She was like no one else I had ever met. She was full of life and endlessly mischievous. She was fearless, loving, and hopelessly beautiful. She made me laugh so hard, I'd cry. And she could do the best cartwheels of anyone I knew. She awoke something in me that had died many years prior and made me see life in a new way. For that, I will always be thankful to her."

Her voice wavers slightly. "When her father, Phil, married my mother, Renee, we were ecstatic. We would officially be sisters, and we got to wear pink for an entire day as bridesmaids. It was the best day of all our lives."

"Unfortunately, as many of you know, this joy was not meant to last. After the deaths of our parents, Leah and I were—I was respon—" Isabella bites her lip and closes her eyes for a brief moment. "After they died, words were said, hearts were broken, and regrets solidified. The last few years, Leah and I have spoken, maybe, twice. They were quick words that never conveyed just what she meant to me. For this, I will always be sorry."

She looks at Leah's coffin and pauses. "I'm sorry, Leah. I am sorry for so much. I am sorry that I wasn't the big sister you needed when our parents died. I—I wish . . . I wish I could change so much, but I can't. I hope I can make it up to you before we meet again. I will do all I can. I love you, and I miss you."

She places a small envelope in the middle of the wreath of lilies that lies on the top of the coffin and sits down. Her red haired friend places her arm around her shoulders. I'm glad she has that much.

=DitD=

I stand with Mama and Alice, watching Isabella as she makes her way around the room like a pro. She smiles and shakes many hands. The tearful, regretful woman who we all saw in the church has now gone replaced by, I can only assume, a lawyer.

We are in a hotel in the city for the wake. The room is large and decorated with more lilies. There is a mountain of delicious looking food, and drinks are free. Apparently, no expense has been spared. Alice feeds Shortcake as I hold my beer and contemplate raiding the table of chicken legs.

"It was a beautiful service," Mama says at my side.

"Yeah," I reply. "It was interesting to hear what she had to say." I gesture with my bottle towards Isabella.

Mama Esme looks at me as she nods in agreement. "I know. It sounded like she had a tough time with her family. She's lost so much. Poor girl."

I hum in response. The revelation that she lost both of her parents is still working its way through my brain.

To say I'm intrigued is an understatement. It wasn't so much what Isabella said at the service but more what she _didn't_ say. The feeling that she's hiding something under her armour of Gucci and Louboutin heels still teases at my neck. I watch her as she talks to a guy with white hair and a walking stick.

She smiles, but it looks fake. It's nothing like the one I saw when she was at my apartment, and it bothers me. It's clear from today, and from what she said last night, that the smile she's using hides a multitude of secrets and hurts. I wonder what could have happened to her to make her feel like she has to put on a show of phony contentment. I know enough about it to see the signs, and she wears every one of them.

"She's a very pretty girl," Mama Esme says quietly before she takes a sip from her gin and tonic. Her eyes are burning into the side of my face.

"Is she?" I ask plainly with no inflection.

"I think so."

I turn to her with an indifferent expression. "Would you like a chicken leg?"

She chuckles, unsurprised with my evasiveness. "I'm fine, thank you."

I wander over to the table and grab a plate. I pile it with chicken, rice, and pasta. When I turn back, I am shocked as all shit to see Isabella talking to my sister, looking down at Shortcake. Her hands are at her sides. I see her fingers twitch, but she makes no move to touch the baby. I pick up a chicken leg and take an annoyed bite.

What the _fuck_ is up with that?

"She's complicated."

I turn to my right to find the red haired woman from the church.

She smiles and holds out her hand as I swallow my chicken. "Victoria Scarlet."

I smirk and take her hand, while glancing at her hair. "Your parents planned that well."

She laughs and nods. "That they did."

"Are you a friend of Isabella's?" I know she is, but I'm interested in what this woman can tell me about the enigma that is Miss Swan.

"Yeah," she answers looking surreptitiously across the room. "We go back a long time. You're the baby's father, right? Isabella didn't tell me her name."

"Shor—Elizabeth Marie." I exhale loudly and roll my eyes. "Yeah, I'm her father. Edward Cullen: entrepreneur, sperm donor, all around asshat."

She laughs, and I notice Isabella is looking over at us.

"How are you finding fatherhood?" she asks.

"Tiring," I answer quickly. "Do you have kids?"

"No." She shakes her head slowly. "Not for want of my husband and me trying."

I blink. "I'm sorry."

She waves me off. "Forget it." She sips her drink. "Isabella tells me you're a dancer."

My mouth opens with an audible pop. "She did?"

"Yes. What kind of dancing do you do?"

Now there's a question.

I clear my throat and frown in puzzlement, looking anywhere but the woman in front of me. I rub my chin and shuffle from foot to foot. The word stripper seems too large and loud for a room filled with Seattle's finest legal minds, and I don't want Isabella's friend to have another reason to doubt my parenting skills. My skin prickles in agitation. I hate that I feel self-conscious about my job.

"Street, hip hop—um, exotic. I cover a lot," I mumble, running a hand through my hair.

Victoria's face never changes. She seems genuinely interested. "I was always a lover of ballet when I was a kid."

"Really? Me too. Although, as a guy, it's not something I shout about." I grin, and the uneasiness that had settled over me fades. I let my stare slip over to Isabella. She's talking to an older woman who's looking at her intently. "You said she was complicated."

Victoria gives a small snort when she follows my gaze. "You haven't noticed?"

I smile wryly. "I have. I have to confess. Her mood swings are kind of giving me whiplash."

"That's Isabella for you. I love her to death, but she's a complete contradiction. Underneath her bravado, she's as vulnerable as you can imagine."

"She's been through a lot." I say it as a statement, not as a question, and Victoria's nod confirms my suspicions. "What's the deal with her and Leah?"

Victoria takes a deep breath, which lifts her shoulders. "That's not my story to tell."

I was hoping for a more explicit answer, but I don't push. We all have stories and secrets, and I respect her friend for being protective.

She looks at me quizzically. "Leah didn't tell you about her?"

I'm surprised by her question. It seems that Isabella Swan has been more frugal with her knowledge of me than I expected. "I, um, only met Leah briefly." I look towards my feet and place my plate on the table to my right. I'm no longer hungry.

"Well." Victoria sighs. "This stuff happens. Good for you for stepping up."

My head snaps back to her. I'm not sure what to say. I'm surprised as shit. "Um, thanks?"

She chuckles and tips her glass to me. "See you, Edward."

"Bye."

=DitD=

I walk through the park, pushing the stroller with Isabella at my side. We don't speak. The uncomfortable void between us continues as the silence stretches. It's been this way since we left the hotel. I'm not sure what I want to say. I'm not sure what I _should_ say. She walks with her head down, hands in the pockets of her black coat.

Shortcake is fast asleep. She's been passed around a lot today. Once the news she was Leah's baby got around the room, a hoard of broody women dragging their disinterested men converged onto her. Alice saved my ass. As I watched from the edge of the room, she spoke politely to everyone who wanted to look at the baby no one had known about. I kept back. I wasn't ready to put myself out there. It was embarrassing enough telling Victoria about my momentary indiscretion. Least of all a bunch of cooing strangers.

It was a cowardly thing to do, I know. But Alice coped admirably.

"It was strange no one knew Leah was pregnant," I say, looking at Isabella surreptitiously.

She stares out towards the lake. "Not really," she answers. "She's been away travelling for months. Last time I heard, she was in Australia. No one knew she was back."

I frown. "Australia?"

"Yeah, she'd always wanted to go." Isabella shrugs. "I guess this was the perfect opportunity. She didn't want anyone to know about the baby. And no one was going to query her trip when we all knew she'd always wanted to visit the place. Her ruse about going travelling was never even questioned."

I look down at my daughter and swallow. Christ, she could have been on the other side of the world, and I never would have known. "She'd rather that than tell people she was pregnant?"

Isabella smiles gently towards the ground. "Like everything where Leah is concerned, she deals with things in her own way."

I can kind of understand, but my stomach still knots with the thought of never knowing about Shortcake. I also can't help but feel sorry for the girl who thought she'd be better off without her friends and sister for support.

"It sucks that you hadn't spoken to her," I continue, aware that I'm treading dangerous waters.

"We had our lives to lead," Isabella answers quickly, dismissively. "People grow apart."

I turn my head to her. "Even sisters?"

She doesn't answer me, nor does she look at me.

We walk and walk. We hardly speak. When we do, it's about inane bullshit neither of us is really interested in. The stuff that I _am_ interested in seems to be off limits. Nevertheless, the questions I have continue to grow.

"So I've been thinking," she says abruptly as we head towards a set of wooden benches.

"Yeah?"

She clasps her glove-covered hands together. "I, um . . . I was wondering if you'd allow me to look after Shortcake sometime." She bites her lip. "You know, when you're working or something."

Her stammering and uncertainty makes me nervous, and I stop walking.

She takes my silence and stillness as doubt and continues on, her tone sharper, less timid. "We_ are_ supposed to be raising her in a joint custody agreement, Mr. Cullen. I do have a right to see her." Her curtness and assumption that I would stop her from seeing Shortcake makes my hackles rise instantly. "I know you're her father, but she is my niece, and I think that—"

"Jesus," I snap back at her, stopping her in her tracks. "Take a fucking breath, why don't ya?"

She blinks up at me, her cheeks flushed from her temper and the cold. "I beg your pardon?"

"Calm the hell down," I bark. "You didn't give me a chance to answer, and you're already losing your shit."

I put the brakes on the stroller and sit down heavily onto the nearby bench. I exhale a grey cloud of annoyed breath that floats and disappears into the frigid air.

"I've never known anyone lose their temper like you." I shake my head and pull my beanie further down over my ears. "You need to chill out. I don't know whether I want my daughter with someone whose mood can change so damned quickly."

I don't mean it, but I want her to think about her behaviour. It's ridiculous. She can't keep talking to me like something she's stepped in. She stares at me, seemingly lost for words. She fidgets, which is strange to see, before she takes a seat.

Before her silence can drive me anymore insane, she begins to talk. "I apologise," she mutters. "I just thought you were going to say no, and—"

"We have a joint custody agreement," I cut her short. "I know."

She fiddles with a piece of hair that has come loose from its clip. She sighs and drops her hands to her lap. "Look, I know I can be—"

"A pain in the ass," I interrupt firmly.

She glares at me, and I glare right back, undeterred. I can see she is holding whatever cutting remark she is thinking about behind her clenched teeth. To her credit, she swallows it down.

"I'd like to look after her," she says quietly. "I don't know what kind of aunt I'd be. I haven't had much experience with babies, but I'd like to spend more time with her."

I watch her from the corner of my eye as she peers over at Shortcake. I see the small smile cross her mouth again before it evaporates as quickly as it formed.

"I _want_ you to spend time with her," I say.

Isabella looks at me, somewhat surprised.

"I didn't know Leah like you did," I continue. "I want Shortcake to know as much about her mother as possible. You're her chance to get to know her."

She looks away quickly, blinking rapidly. "That's . . . very sweet of you."

I sit forward, elbows on my knees. "It's not about my being sweet, Isabella. It's about wanting the best for my daughter."

Her eyes find mine again, and she nods. "I see that."

"I'd appreciate any and all help here," I say, chuckling. "As good as she is, she's a full time job. My family is doing all they can, but I can't rely on them forever." I shrug. "Maybe you could babysit during the week, too."

Isabella pauses. Her gaze flickers between the stroller and me. "I'd like that."

I smile. "Cool."

The tension that is always so prevalent between us eases infinitesimally.

"And Isabella?" I murmur, sitting back. "Call me Edward."

=DitD=

**To:** Edward Cullen

**From:** Isabella Swan

**Subject: **Tonight

Edward,

Would it be okay if I brought my friend Heidi with me tonight? She loves babies, and I would feel a little more confident if she was there with me.

Isabella

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Isabella Swan

**From:** Edward Cullen

**Subject:** RE: Tonight

Isabella,

Sure. That's fine. And don't worry. It's a piece of cake.

Edward

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Edward Cullen

**From:** Isabella Swan

**Subject:** RE: RE: Tonight

A piece of Strawberry Shortcake?

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Isabella Swan

**From:** Edward Cullen

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: Tonight

Did you make a joke?

Be careful, Miss Swan, I'm not sure lawyers are allowed a sense of humour.

Sent from my iPhone

**To:** Edward Cullen

**From:** Isabella Swan

**Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: Tonight

What can I say? I'm a rebel.

Sent from my iPhone

Isabella and Heidi arrive at my apartment right on time. They shuffle in, covered in snow, looking slightly uncomfortable. I usher them into the sitting room and offer them warm drinks, which they look desperate for.

The weather in Seattle has taken a turn. The snow began earlier this afternoon, and it's persisted ever since. It's not enough to cause absolute chaos just yet, but it won't be long.

I take Isabella's jacket and blink in shock when I see that she's not wearing her usual lawyer-type attire. Her jeans are black and tighter than I imagined she'd wear. The dark denim sets off the vibrant red of her sweater. It's v-neck, too, and the sight of her neck, collarbone, and a sliver of cleavage just about puts me on my ass.

Who knew she had it in her? I can't help but admit to myself that she looks good. Sexy, even. It's a shame, however, that her hair is still up. I'd like to see it down.

I make coffee and hand the two women their mugs. Heidi smiles at me appreciatively. I smirk at the twinkle in her eye.

"You're place is great," she comments, as she turns from me and begins to look around. "Do you rent?"

"No, I own it." I smile. I glance at Isabella who's looking at me curiously. "What?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head and sips her coffee.

Whatever.

"Shortcake's had a bath and a feed," I tell them both. "She's been asleep for about a half hour."

I watch as they go to her. Heidi coos and gasps. "She's beautiful."

Isabella nods. "She is."

"She was a little grouchy before," I tell them. "But I'm sure it's nothing. She likes music. If she wakes up you can play some Springsteen for her."

"You like Bruce?" Isabella asks me, looking up from Shortcake's bassinet.

"Of course," I scoff and roll my eyes. "Please."

I show them the stereo, where the bottles and diapers are, and make my way over to Shortcake. I place my hand on her back and whisper my goodnight. She purses her lips and makes a suckling noise. She feels lovely and warm, and I can't help but let my finger skim the soft downy hair at her nape of her neck.

I've left her a few times now, but it still doesn't get any easier. The rope in the centre of my chest grows taut and tight, and my anxiety levels creep mercilessly up my spine.

"She'll be okay," Isabella says quietly.

"I know," I reply nonchalantly, standing up straight. I clear my throat and point across the apartment. "The TV remote is there. There are some DVDs. There are snacks in the fridge. My cell number is on the kitchen table, as is the club's, my sister's, Mam—"

"Edward," she stops me, "I've got it." She gives me a soft smile that creases the corners of her eyes.

I grab my bag, beanie, and jacket and wander to the door. I turn back to her, rubbing my chin in worry. "I'll be back before two. You sure you're okay with this?"

"Yes. I'm sure," she answers.

She looks as apprehensive as I am, with her hands in her sweater cuffs and her tense shoulders, but the look in her eye is one of determination and stubbornness. It's not that I don't trust her, but I've not seen her hold or touch Shortcake yet, and I can't help but be concerned. Maybe that's why she brought her friend, whom I notice is still checking me out from behind Isabella.

"You do bar work?" she asks, while fingering her light brown hair.

I cock an impatient eyebrow, as her eyes travel down my black tee and dark wash jeans, lingering on the ink visible on my arms. "I dance."

I notice the side of Isabella's mouth lift gently, but she doesn't add anything.

Heidi's eyes widen slightly. "Very cool."

"Have a good night," Isabella says hurriedly as if sensing my unease.

"Okay," I mumble, pulling on my jacket and beanie. "See you." I nod, and, before I can change my mind about the whole night, I open the door and leave.

=DitD=

My final dance of tonight is my favourite.

I get to truly let loose and go back to my street dancing roots. I stand behind the curtain, wearing grey sweats (Velcro-ed, of course), a white wife beater, and sneakers. I pull the black cap further down on my head and wait for Emmett to finish his singing set.

He sings naked, with a guitar hiding his twig and giggle berries. It's hysterical.

He finishes with a note that lasts at least twenty seconds, and the club cheers. He starts to rev them up then. He tells them I'm on next, and uses words like 'sexual,' 'muscular,' and 'wet.' There are screams and calls for me. The name Coda reverberates around the place. My skin prickles with adrenaline and energy.

The curtain drops to deafening squeals and hollers. I take a deep breath, tense my arms, and wait for the bass.

It begins like a heart beat, pulsing through me from the balls of my feet to the top of my head. My body hears it and begins to throb. I twitch and jerk my arms. Robotic. My muscles tense and relax, and I'm moving across the stage, popping and grinding in a way that makes the place erupt even more. I drop down to the stage floor. I spin on my shoulders, and, as I come to stop, back on my feet, I lift my wife beater slowly over my head and fling it to the front tables.

The women screech and grapple for it as if it has the answers to life itself.

I drop down onto my stomach, and fuck the floor with my hips. I go slow and smile at the women in the front row. Then I speed up, watching as their eyes enlarge and their mouths fall open. Their sexual desire fills the room like a thick fog. I can feel it. It makes my balls ache.

I get up and rub my hands down my body, moving across the stage. The oil I have all over me makes it easier for me to slide and glide. I thrust, and the women scream. I hump, and they cry out. I'm their unattainable everything. I embody all their wants and desires, and I drink it up like fucking ambrosia.

When I rip my sweats off, they go insane. I crawl across the stage, writhing and pulsating, and hands grab for me. They grab my face, my ass, and my cock. They stuff notes in my thong and pull my cap from my head. I feel mouths on my skin and nails in my flesh.

It's incredible.

=DitD=

I leave the club sooner than I normally would. As excellent as the night has been, I'm aware that it's late, and I need to get back to Shortcake and Isabella. I've checked my cell numerous times during the night. I had one text to say that Shortcake had had another feed, but since then I've heard nothing.

Maybe Isabella did okay.

I enter the apartment quietly and place everything down softly as not to disturb Shortcake. On closing the door, I'm surprised to see the TV is off and the only light in the room is a small table lamp. Shortcake's bassinet is empty, and the place is silent.

I wander to the kitchen to find it in darkness and immediately try to hold down the panic that starts to snake its way around my neck.

"Isabella?" I say it loudly but hear nothing in return.

I hurry down the hallway to the nursery and fling the door open. It, too, is dark and empty.

"Isabella?" My voice sounds strange to my ears. My lungs squeeze, and my blood starts to run cold when I see the bathroom and my other spare room are also unoccupied.

I stride down the hallway towards my bedroom. I grip my hair, nauseous, and petrified beyond comprehension. I drive the door open, and my relief cripples me. I grab onto the doorframe, and exhale a staggered breath.

Isabella is asleep, lying fully clothed on top of my blankets curled around Shortcake whose blue eyes are watching me carefully. I close my eyes and focus on trying to calm my heart that is almost beating out of my chest.

It is quite possible I have never been as terrified or as thankful in my entire life. I rub a hand down my face. "Fuck me."

I look over at the two girls on my bed and shake my head. Staring down at Isabella, I notice that some of her hair has come out of its fastening. Chocolate waves fall on my pillow and her face, which is the most peaceful I've ever seen it. Wrapped around my daughter the way that she is makes her look small. Fragile somehow.

Shortcake blinks up at me and stretches her small arms. She makes a small noise as if she's happy to see me, but Isabella doesn't move. I enter the bedroom and reach for my daughter.

"Come on, sweet girl."

As soon as I try to move her, Isabella murmurs. "Edward."

"Yeah."

Her eyes snap open. She jumps, startled, still half-asleep.

"It's okay," I whisper, placing my hand on her arm. "It's me. It's me."

She pulls at her sweater that has ridden up over her stomach, and immediately starts grappling with her hair. Watching her, I smile and hold Shortcake to my chest.

"What's been going on?" I ask.

Isabella looks up at me, narrowing her eyes from the light streaming in from the hallway.

"Um, Heidi had to go." She rubs her face tiredly. "Shortcake woke up and wouldn't settle."

"You tried the music?" I ask, placing my hand on Shortcake's head for a temperature. She's warm, but not overly so.

"I did," Isabella answers as she stands from the bed. She looks crumpled and discombobulated. "It didn't work, so we went to the nursery, but it was like she missed you." Her attempts at explaining herself make her appear younger and oddly adorable. "I thought that, maybe if I brought her in here, she would be able to smell you, and it would calm her down, and—"

"Isabella." I smile gently. "It's alright. You just gave me a shock is all. I wasn't expecting to find you in my bed."

She dips her head and messes with her hair some more. "Yeah. Well, don't get too excited."

I snort. "Don't worry, I won't." I turn out of my room back into the kitchen.

Isabella follows, her bare feet slapping against the wood floor. She makes her way to the sofa and grabs her boots.

"Do you want a coffee?" I ask. "Wake you up for your drive home?"

She shakes her head. "I'll be fine."

"Where _is_ home?" I know that she was looking for a place.

"I'm renting an apartment four blocks from here," she replies. "Near the park."

I'm impressed. Property down that way isn't cheap. "Nice. Within a two mile radius, right?"

"Yeah." She stands and lifts her coat from the hook by the door. "How was _your _evening?"

I can't help but detect a hint of sarcasm, but I let it slide. "It was decent. Great crowd. You should come sometime."

I look back at her as she wraps her scarf around her neck and picks up her bag. I think she mumbles something like 'yeah, right,' but I'm not sure. I know it's late, but I can't help thinking that she's desperate to get away from me. I thought we were getting over this rudeness, this chasm of ignorance, but I must have been mistaken.

I frown in annoyance. "You found it okay, tonight? You fed her and stuff?"

She pauses, her gaze fixed on Shortcake. "It was . . . good. I was nervous, but Heidi was a great help."

"So you'll do it again?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes. I'd like to."

Her paradoxes are absurd. I recollect what Victoria had told me at the wake about Isabella being contradictory central, but seeing it in front of me is crazy. I walk towards her as she turns to the door.

I hold it open with one hand while holding Shortcake in the other. "Isabella?"

She looks up at me.

"Are you sure everything's alright?"

She plasters on a tight smile. "Sure. I'm just tired."

"I have a spare room," I say nonchalantly, fearful that she'll get the wrong idea. "Next time you babysit, you're more than welcome to stay. Save you freezing your ass off."

She swallows hard and licks her lips. I'm sure my sweaty, greased up hair and my obligatory eyeliner, which I know has smudged, aren't helping my case. I must stink of body oil and heat, but I smile anyway. She drops her head and fiddles with her bag.

"Um, maybe," she answers quietly. "I'll speak to you soon."

And with that, she disappears hurriedly once again down my hallway.

I close the door and lock it. Leaning back against it with my sleepy daughter in my arms, I can't help but wonder what the hell just happened.

**Holy Magicward does his grinding, stage humping thing, Batman**!

**Thanks again for all your support. It means so much.**

**Mucho love to Purelyamuse whose constant support and encouragement makes this fic such a pleasure to write.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	10. Chapter 9

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Nine**

**If I can find the guts to give you all my love**

**Then I'll be feelin' like a real man**

"I don't know what the hell is up with her," I grumble, putting bread into my shopping cart. "She was all cool and shit before I went out. I come back, and she's all weird again."

Alice shakes her head in confusion. "She seemed perfectly nice and normal at the funeral."

"Ah," I say with an accusatory finger pointing in my sister's direction. "That's just it. She '_seems_' nice and normal, but then wham! She turns back into this standoffish bitch with a stick up her ass."

Alice rolls her eyes as James starts banging his hands against the handle of the shopping cart shouting ass. She placates him with a banana taken from the cart and turns back to me.

"She's been through a lot, Coda," she muses. "She's lost both her parents and her sister. She's been thrown into this situation with you while dealing with her grief. I mean, that's a lot for anybody."

Fajita wraps join the loaf of bread in my cart along with ground beef and an onion. Cooking helps me think. Like painting (which I don't get chance to do anymore) it calms me. It helps me focus.

I haven't heard from Isabella since she left my apartment in a whirr of confusion two nights ago. I've emailed her, but she hasn't replied. I'm entirely baffled by her behaviour. When I came back from the club to find her on my bed with Shortcake, I thought we had turned a corner. Clearly not.

"What did you guys talk about at the funeral?" I ask nonchalantly. I keep my eyes on the shelves of pasta, waiting for Alice to reply.

"We talked about Shortcake and her sister and her work. That was pretty much it."

I glance at her, looking for signs that she's holding something back. I don't see any. Dammit. "And that was it?"

She shrugs. "That was it." She rubs a hand across her hair and sighs. "She was actually really nice. She seemed a little shy, but she was pleasant enough."

I roll my eyes and move down the aisle. I need sugar. Fuck's sake. The idea that Alice likes Isabella doesn't sit well with me. It doesn't sit well with me at all. It makes me agitated and fidgety, and I can't for one moment explain why. I should want them to get along. Jesus, we're meant to be bringing up a child together. Isabella hanging out, talking, and being friends with my family would help the whole situation immensely. I just can't seem to shake off the sense of unease that teases at me every damned time I think about it. It makes me nervous and restless.

"Mama liked her," Alice adds quietly.

Great. My life is officially fantastic.

"Awesome," I mumble and shove my cart towards the candy aisle.

=DitD=

Two days later, and still no word from Isabella, I make my way to the paediatrician's office with Shortcake in her car seat. It's her first official weigh in and check-up, and I'm nervous. I can't explain it. I _know_ she's heavier. She feels it, and she certainly looks it. She's healthy and cared for. I just want the doctor to see it. Honestly, she eats like a freaking horse. And she doesn't want for anything. In fact, she has too much, what with Mama and Alice spoiling her with clothes and furry animals.

Both Mama and my sister asked if I wanted them to join me, but I told them no. I'm confident enough to take her alone. At least, I feel confident enough.

Humming Bruce as a way of keeping myself and Shortcake calm, I wander down the hallway of the office and push my way through the door into the waiting area. The room smells like antiseptic and baby powder. I'm not feeling as confident when I see women—only women—and their kids, sitting around the room. Christ. They're everywhere, and they look at me as if I have come from a different planet.

Planet Dad, apparently.

The conversations I overhear as I slowly make my way across the room, vary from the difficulties of breast-feeding, post birth sex, and lack of sleep. The latter I can definitely sympathise with. The former . . . not so much. Why did I say no to Mama, again?

Noticing my, no doubt, terrified expression and my hesitation, the plump blonde-haired woman behind the desk smiles widely. I smile back, take a breath, and walk towards her, but my eye is quickly caught by two people on the other side of the room.

I am equal parts shocked to shit and annoyed as all hell when I see Isabella Swan sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, speaking animatedly to a young woman who has a baby boy on her lap.

Isabella waves two fingers towards the baby and smiles when he giggles up at her. Even though I can only see half of it, I know her smile is nice.

As though she senses me looking at her, she glances over. I'm still standing like a damned idiot with the handle of the car seat in my hand and the blonde woman asking for my name and appointment time. I answer the woman with my eyes still on Isabella and watch as she rises from her seat and walks over to me.

She stops a couple of feet away, smiling timidly. "Hey."

I cock an eyebrow in question. I've heard nothing from her for four fucking days, and her opening greeting to me is hey? I snort in derision, roll my eyes, and make my way to an empty seat. I am neither surprised nor ecstatic when Isabella takes the seat next to me.

She looks into the car seat and smiles wistfully at Shortcake who is fast asleep. I notice with astonishment that she grazes the pad of her index finger across Shortcake's right hand. Despite Isabella sleeping in my bed with her, I've never seen her touch my daughter. I have to confess, the sight of it makes my chest lift.

"Look," she begins quietly, crossing her legs slowly. "I'm sorry that I haven't been in touch."

I ignore her and cross my arms over my chest.

"There's been some . . . complications at work, and-"

"At work?" I snap, glaring at her. "You have some complications at work and you disappear? No phone call? No email, text?"

She closes her eyes momentarily. When they open the dark brown of them is soft. The fight and fire I've grown so used to seeing has dimmed significantly. She pauses before looking at me in a way I've never seen. It's apologetic, almost pleading.

"I know," she concedes. "I should have called. But there was a lot to handle—deal with—and I couldn't find the time to explain."

"I get it," I retort. "You care more about your work than your niece. I get it. Really."

It's a low blow, but I'm pissed. She knew about this appointment from the itinerary I had emailed to her a week ago, and yet she never mentioned attending it with me. Her appearance here has left me shaken. I wasn't expecting it, and her presence, as always, jolts me.

"The head of my firm, Aro Volturi, had a heart attack," she continues quietly. "His son is still in England, and there's no other family, so I went to New York for a couple of days to make sure everything was okay. I didn't want him to only be surrounded by his legal partners."

"And his son couldn't get on a plane and see his father?" I ask in amazement.

Hell, no matter where I was or what I was doing, if Carlisle needed me, I'd fucking be there.

She fiddles with the clip that's holding her hair up and sighs. "Marcus is heading a huge case in London right now. He simply couldn't leave. He's already a body down with my being here." She folds her hands in her lap and presses her lips together.

I blink at her as the pieces start to fall together. The son. Marcus. Her boyfriend. He sounds like a selfish, pretentious douchebag, too. I remember he wasn't at the funeral.

"He gave you shit for leaving England because your sister died?" I am flummoxed.

"No," she answers a little too quickly. "He was fine about my leaving. Really. There's just a lot of work to do."

"And that's more important than family?"

She stares at me with eyes that tell me she doesn't agree, but she doesn't say a word. Shortcake squeaks and stretches in her car seat, and Isabella sits forward, placing her hand on her tiny knee as a means to comfort her.

"She's grown," she whispers.

"Yeah," I reply, watching her carefully. "She never stops fucking eating."

At my coarse language, the woman at the side of Isabella throws me a look of irritation. I simply smirk and wink back.

"I liked feeding her the other night," Isabella adds, gazing at her niece. "I wasn't sure at first, but it was nice."

"You should do it more often," I suggest firmly.

She looks at me then and nods. "I know. I will."

I'm not sure I like this compliant, submissive Isabella Swan. It's unnerving.

"What's up with you?" I ask, narrowing my eyes as if it will help me see what the problem is.

"Nothing, I'm fine," she replies. She sits back in her seat, spine straight, and face steely.

"You're . . . different," I hedge. "Quiet. Almost considerate and sensitive. It's weird."

It's a good thing I'm sitting down because the loud laugh and snort that comes from Isabella would have knocked me on my ass had I been standing. She covers her mouth with her hand but continues to chuckle.

"I'm flattered, Edward." She coughs behind her fingers. "Considerate _and_ sensitive. Wow. How unlike me. I apologise for weirding you out and will endeavour to be the rude bitch you know and love from now on."

I see the glimmer of mirth and playfulness in her eyes, and I smile. It suddenly strikes me that this is the first time I have seen her so light-hearted and loose, and, watching her, I don't know why she doesn't smile and laugh more often. She has one of those laughs that makes you want to do the same, and her smile brightens her entire face, brushing the lines of weariness away. She's bordering on lovely like this.

Paradox indeed. This woman will be the death of me.

She dabs at the edges of her eyes with her fingertips where her tears of laughter have gathered, and I shake my head. "You're nuts," I mutter.

The doctor calls us in not long after. As surprised as I am that Isabella joins me while Shortcake is weighed and measured, I have to admit I'm glad she's here. The doctor is all smiles and compliments about my daughter, and my chest fills with pride. She's put on weight, and she's growing perfectly. He listens to her chest and is pleased that there is no rattle. He states his concern about her being in the NICU, but, so far, he is more than satisfied that her lungs are just fine. Her ears are clear, and her joints are also good. Her eyes are responsive, and her heart is nice and strong.

The plume of relief that gathers inside me is indescribable. I take her from the doctor's hands and hold her tightly against me. I'm so proud. It sounds ridiculous, but I am. I'm proud of Shortcake, and I'm also proud of myself. We've survived. It's still early days, but we've survived. It's one hurdle of many, I know; nonetheless, hearing the praise from the doctor makes the rest seem a lot less troublesome.

I place her back into her car seat, and the three of us make our way to the desk to make another appointment. This appointment doesn't scare me. Bring it on.

Outside the snow is still lying on the ground, and the wind blows a heinously sharp gust towards us. I'm glad I wrapped Shortcake up so tightly. Baby burrito could face anything at this point. I see Isabella hide her mouth in the collar of her woollen coat while pushing her hands deep into her pockets.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" I ask, gesturing across the street to a Starbucks.

She looks between Starbucks and me a few times before nodding, and we traipse through the snow to the warmth of the shop. Because of the weather, the place is fairly quiet. I order for us both, unsurprised at Isabella's request of a simple, black coffee. We sit facing one another with Shortcake in her car seat at my side.

"I was wondering," Isabella says softly while stirring the obligatory Starbucks stick around her cup. "Would you . . . and Shortcake like to come for dinner at my apartment this week?"

I pause with my own cup at my lips and stare at her across its rim. She's fascinated by her boring as all shit coffee, and I am more than a little shocked by her proposal.

"Um," I begin inarticulately, as I place my cup down. "Is this for a special occasion?"

She looks up and shakes her head. "No. Not at all. I just thought that, well, if Shortcake were to stay at my place at some point . . . it might be a good idea for you to see where it is."

I frown. "You want Shortcake to stay with you?"

She shrugs. "Maybe when you're working late at the weekend or during the week when you need some down time she could stay with me?"

The fact that she says it like a question diffuses the panic that has begun to swirl in my stomach. I glance at my daughter and lick my lips.

"I didn't want to assume that you'd just say yes," she adds. "I know I have a lot to make up for. Today included."

"It would be a help," I concede. "Mama keeps her. Or Alice. It would be nice to have an alternative."

"I'd like to babysit her at your place a few more times first," Isabella says swiftly. "You know, grow in confidence."

I sit forward, holding the cup between my hands. "But you're fine with her." I lower my voice. "Why are you so afraid of her?"

Isabella's eyes dart from Shortcake to me. She is obviously taken aback. She fidgets, which is entirely uncharacteristic. She tries to look defensive, but it comes off as panicked. "What do you mean?"

I speak gently. "I mean, why did it take you so long to touch her? Why are you scared of her?"

"I'm not," she snaps. "How ridiculous. I'm just not used to babies, is all."

Her face pinches as she sips her coffee. I'm aware that I may have wandered into unchartered territory. She's clearly uncomfortable with what I have said. I can almost see the shutters coming down around her, blocking me out once again.

I sit back and nod in an attempt to mollify her. "Fair enough." Her shoulders relax infinitesimally. "When do you want us?"

=DitD=

"I think it's a nice idea, Edward," Mama says the following evening as she stirs her spaghetti sauce. "It was probably hard for her to suggest it, too."

"I know," I say, my eyes on Shortcake as she takes her bottle. She looks up, and I smile. She keeps her eyes open so much more now. They're still beautiful and blue. "Hey, pretty girl," I whisper, trailing my index finger down her cheek.

"I also have a proposal for you." Mama, kitchen towel on her shoulder, nibbles on her bottom lip.

I shrug, waiting.

"How would you feel if I invited Isabella over for Thanksgiving?"

I blink, letting the words echo around my head. Isabella. In Mama Esme's house. For Thanksgiving. I purse my lips and hum. "Um—"

"I don't want to invite her if it's going to make you uncomfortable," Mama rambles. "But, I know she has no family in the city, and no one should be alone at Thanksgiving. Also, I thought it could be another nice brick for your bridge."

The. Fuck.

I dip my chin, seriously close to calling the men in white coats for her. "Bridge?"

"Yes," she replies with a wide, all knowing smile. "The bridge you're building to Isabella after your rocky start."

"For God's sake." I groan and close my eyes. "We're not building bridges, Mama. We're simply trying to get along for Shortcake's sake, and because that's what Leah wanted."

I shake my head and lift my glass of juice to my lips, wishing to all that is holy for some alcohol.

"So . . . that's a no?" Mama questions, leaning her elbows onto the kitchen table. I swear she pouts.

"Why is this so important to you?" I ask impatiently.

"Because she's going to be looking after my granddaughter," Mama replies gesturing to the baby in my arms. "And I want to know that she's a normal, sensible person who can be trusted."

"And you can tell that over turkey?" I smile when she flicks me with the towel in frustration.

"Oh, you!" she says while laughing. She stands slowly, crossing her arms over her chest, and looks at me. Her stare drifts to Shortcake, and she sighs. "Seriously though, Edward, if you don't want her to come, I understand. I just thought it would be a nice gesture."

Shortcake's eyes bore into me, rolling gently. She's fucking perfect. I kiss her forehead tenderly. "I'll think about it," I answer Mama. "Promise."

=DitD=

Isabella's apartment building is nice. It's _very_ nice.

As I make my way through the vast, marble-floored lobby towards the man at a desk, I feel a little out of my depth. The guy directs me to the elevator where I press the button for floor fourteen. I glance down at Shortcake in her car seat as the elevator doors close, and she looks back at me, pacifier in place, seemingly more comfortable than I am.

"Pretty high class digs, huh?"

She blinks in reply.

The elevator pings, and the doors open. With Shortcake's seat handle in my hand, I wander down the hallway with its lush carpets and fancy artwork on the walls until I find apartment 135. I clear my throat and knock once. I can't explain why I'm as nervous as I am. I figure maybe it's because I've always encountered Isabella on my own turf—save for the lawyers' office. I'm not really sure what to expect tonight.

The lock on the door clicks, and it opens to reveal Isabella dressed in black jeans and a green Rolling Stones t-shirt. The casual look suits her. She is barefoot, but her hair is still tied up. She smiles gently and gestures with her hand for me to enter.

"You found it okay?" she asks as I stand just inside her apartment like a moron not knowing what to do.

"Yeah," I reply. "It's a nice place."

I glance quickly around the sitting room to see cream walls, a brown leather sofa, TV, plants, and books. The books are stacked in the corner of the room in two large piles below some soft watercolours on the walls. Strangely, the artwork doesn't seem to match the woman who owns it.

"Can I take your coat?" she asks, holding out her hands. I place Shortcake and her diaper bag down and hand her my coat. I notice Isabella's eyes on me and look at her curiously. "What?"

"Nothing. Would you like a drink?" She hurries towards what I assume is the kitchen, and I pick the car seat up and follow her.

The kitchen is cavernous with stainless steel and beech wood cupboards. I'm impressed.

"Do you have any beer?" I ask, placing Shortcake's seat on the table. I smile at her when I see she is still awake.

"Um, I don't drink," Isabella replies. "I have some juice. Coffee. Tea."

I hold my hands up. "Juice is fine."

Isabella clatters around the kitchen, pouring some apple juice into a large glass. I notice the smell of garlic and cheese and look towards the oven.

"Smells good."

Isabella looks surprised by my compliment and hands me my drink. "Thanks. It's just lasagne. I hope that's okay?"

"Well, Shortcake isn't a fan," I say with a smile. "But I am."

She exhales. "Good."

She sips her drink, and the awkward silence that seems to follow her and I everywhere, settles over us like a suffocating blanket. I tap my finger against the glass in my hand and bite my tongue stud, waiting for her to speak.

"Did that hurt?"

I look at her in confusion. "Did what hurt?"

She waves her hand towards her mouth. "Your piercing."

Instinctively, I close my mouth. "Not really," I answer. It was so long ago, I can barely remember. Plus, I'd been fairly out of it. I think Emmett had dared me to do it. I touch the line of studs in the top of my ear.

"You have tattoos, too, don't you?" She continues.

I nod and notice the arm of my black Henley has risen up showing the ink on my forearm. "Yeah," I reply with a nervous laugh, pulling it back down. "I was a stupid kid."

"I think they look nice."

My head snaps to her. I'm surprised she would think so. It's not that I'm embarrassed by my ink, but I know what some people can make of it. Most people see my tattoos and my piercings and judge me to be someone I'm not. They think I'm trying to make some sort of statement. The truth is, I'm not. I just like it. The burn and rush of a new tattoo is intoxicating and sexy as hell, and the smart of a piercing is always welcome. The art on my body makes me feel good. I also know it makes me look good. I've been told on several occasions. To hear it from Isabella, however, is somewhat unsettling. I didn't even consider the fact that she looked at me all that closely.

"Thanks," I answer lamely. "Do you have any tattoos?"

I notice a pink hue begin in her cheeks as she looks towards the floor. She puts one foot on top of the other and tucks her arm across herself. "I have one," she murmurs. "Anyway, do you want to see the rest of the place?"

I open my mouth to reply, intrigued as fuck to hear more about her tattoo, but she's already left the room at break neck speed. I look at Shortcake and shake my head. "Women."

I unbuckle her and lift her up to my shoulder, cupping her butt in my hand as I follow Isabella around her apartment.

She shows me the bathroom, which is all marble and white. The spare room—Shortcake's room—is a double. There's no furniture in it yet, and I like that. I like that Isabella hasn't assumed I'll say yes to any of this. I know she's trying. That much is clear, but I still have some serious reservations. Many of which I will have to broach with her before we can move forward.

The entire place is great. I don't say anything when she doesn't show me her room but smile to myself when I see her get slightly flustered when she realises she's left the door of it open.

During dinner we talk about inane bullshit like the weather and recent news. She asks me about Shortcake, which is fine, but there is still a stiltedness to our interaction. It's shitty, and I don't like it. As it was in the coffee shop, I always liken my conversations with her to being on a job interview. It's always heavy with formality. I wonder how often the laughing girl in the paediatrician's office comes out. Her, I like.

Halfway through eating, Shortcake decides that she, too, is hungry and begins to grumble. I place my fork down, but Isabella beats me to it.

"I'll feed her," she offers. "You finish your dinner."

Isabella pulls a bottle from the bag I brought and heads to the kitchen. She is back in moments and moves to pick Shortcake from her seat. She is wary at first. She hesitates when Shortcake gives a loud cry when her hands go to lift her.

"She does that," I say with a wave of my hand. "Just pick her up."

And she does. She lifts her and holds her out, away from her body. She stands like that for a brief moment, almost considering what to do next. The concentration on Isabella's face is evident, as she eventually sits and adjusts Shortcake into the crook of her arm. She grabs the bottle and with a couple of soft words, places it in Shortcake's mouth. My daughter is instantly silent, and the light feeling in my chest that occurred in the doctor's office re-emerges with a soft tilt.

I sit back and watch as Isabella feeds her. The expression of achievement and serenity on her face is a little overwhelming. She looks young and pretty.

"Easy, right?" I say with a small smile.

Isabella doesn't take her eyes from my daughter but nods in response.

"I like it when she looks drunk," I add, suddenly filled with the need to plug the silence.

"She's beautiful," Isabella whispers.

"Well, yeah," I reply with fake modesty. The corners of Isabella's mouth curve, and I know that this is the moment. "So, I have something to ask you," I begin carefully.

For the first time since she started feeding Shortcake, Isabella looks up. Her face is serious and slightly wary. "What is it?"

"It's a question from Mama actually," I continue. "And it's a question that I'm a little worried about asking."

Isabella remains silent, but I can see in her eyes that her lawyer brain is working overtime.

"She wants me to ask if you would like to come to the house for Thanksgiving dinner."

Isabella blinks. I assume from her expression that she's startled by the request. "Oh, um—"

I hold up my palm to stop her. "Before you answer," I say firmly. "I have a few things that I need to say to you. Things that worry me."

She nods again, slowly this time.

"The thing is, Isabella, we barely know one another. We've been thrown into this entirely unorthodox situation with the expectation that we'll get along when, truthfully." I sigh. "You irritate the fuck out of me. I'm sure you're not my biggest fan either, but that isn't what matters." I gesture towards Shortcake. "_She_ is what matters. She is _all_ that matters. My world was turned upside down when I got that call. I was a complete mess, and then you show up with your pretentious lawyer bullshit and your rights and scare the shit out of me."

"Look, Edward—"

"Please," I implore. "Let me finish. You made me feel like I wasn't capable or worthy of looking after my own daughter when it had taken you over two weeks to appear after your own sister's death. I know that there was probably some good reason for that, but I don't care. The point is you tried to intimidate me. You made me doubt myself when all I have done is look after that little girl the best way I can, and I don't appreciate it."

Isabella bites her bottom lip and stares across the room. As present as she is, sitting at the table with my daughter in her arms, she is somewhere else entirely. Her face looks pensive and sad and I try like hell not to allow the guilt to overtake me. If this whole thing is going to work, I have to be able to be honest with her.

She takes a deep breath and looks at Shortcake. "I was in Europe when Leah died. For whatever reason the office couldn't contact me to let me know what had happened. I travelled from Italy back to London, and Marcus told me. I flew out that night. When I was told by the hospital about you, I was . . . stunned. I couldn't believe that Leah had never told me about you, about her pregnancy. We weren't close, but I thought she'd have mentioned something as important as a baby."

She lets her eyes meet mine. "When I met you, I was so angry. Not with you, but with what had happened. I was angry with Leah, but mostly I was angry with myself. I was angry that I hadn't been there for her through any of it; that we'd grown apart and I'd allowed it to happen; that you had been able to take the baby and I didn't even_ know_ you."

"I'm her father," I reply curtly.

"I know that, Edward. I know, and you're a great father. But I didn't know you. It's not an excuse, and I'm sorry that I came across the way I did. It's just, I don't know. It's . . . you know how some people expect you to behave in a certain way?"

"I guess," I answer. "Kind of like how you expected me to behave because I take my clothes off for a living."

She turns away, blushing. "Yeah. I admit I was prejudice, and that was unfair."

I shrug. "It's alright."

"No," she replies sternly. "It's not because I know what it's like. Some people expect me to behave as a lawyer should or how they think one should, anyway. And, I don't know, I find myself becoming that." She shakes her head and eyes the ceiling. "And it's fucking ridiculous because as much as I think it is, it's not me. It's not me at all."

I'm startled by her language and her honesty. I see shards of her ice queen armour start to break off, and I'm not quite sure how to handle it. She looks entirely vulnerable, with her slumped shoulders and despondent eyes, and, in turn, I'm absolutely awkward.

"Look, Isabella," I start quietly. "I'm not asking you to be anything other than there for Shortcake. The way you acted when we first met was one thing, I get it. But your disappearing acts and your bitchy behaviour since is kinda absurd. You're nice one minute, running out of my apartment the next, and then disappearing without a word."

As Isabella nods, I look at my daughter to see that she has fallen asleep.

"Shortcake doesn't know it yet, but your inconsistent presence in her life is an absolute hard limit for me. Do what you want to me," I say, pressing my palms to my chest. "Okay, be prejudice, pretentious, whatever. But don't disappoint _her_. I won't let you."

"I understand," she answers, looking at me with large brown eyes that hide so much.

"No," I counter gently. "I don't think you do. I was brought up by a single mother. I know what it's like to have an inconsistent parent. Someone who makes promises and never sees them through. I won't have that for my daughter. And you can bet your ass, if you do, I _will_ contest that Will, and I _will_ be given full custody. I know that you know no judge in the state will take a child from her parent without just cause. And you said it yourself, I _am_ a good father."

"No," she replies. She smiles slowly. "I said you're a _great_ father."

I run a hand through my hair and finish the last of my juice. "I don't want to be an asshole," I confess. "I just—"

"Want the best for her," she interrupts me. "I get it. And I admire that."

I dip my chin at her compliment. "Thank you."

"I will do better," she says before she turns her gaze to Shortcake. "I want to be there for her as much as I can, in whatever capacity you'll allow."

"Okay," I agree. "So we're agreed. Any time something comes up, you call, right?"

"Right."

"No promises, and you being there for her is priority one."

Isabella nods. "You got it."

Satisfied, I sit back in my seat with a chest that has had a ten tonne weight lifted from it. Isabella and I have definitely moved a few steps forward tonight, and it feels really good. Maybe this whole shitty mess has a silver lining. Isabella stands with Shortcake, placing her bottle on the table and starts to pat her back gently. She moves from side to side—just like I do—and hums softly against her cheek. As I watch, warmth travels through me. It's not unlike the feeling of contentment that covers me when it's Shortcake and me dancing, and I like it.

"I think it'll be great when you have Shortcake stay here," I say before putting another forkful of lasagne into my mouth.

Isabella looks at me over Shortcake's tiny head and smiles. "Yeah."

For a brief second the despondency has gone from her eyes.

The moment is broken, however, by the loud ringing of a cell phone. Isabella grumbles something inaudible, hands Shortcake to me, and moves quickly to the kitchen. I hear her fumble about. "Dammit."

I smile. The sound of Isabella Swan, Attorney at Law, being anything but proper is a revelation.

"Hi, Marcus."

I sit back in my seat, leaning closer to the kitchen, hating myself for eavesdropping, but unable to stop. I'm glad my daughter's eyes are closed so she can't judge me.

"Yeah, I'm good." I hear Isabella continue. "How're you? Have you spoken to your dad?"

She hums and sighs. I imagine her pacing. "No, I haven't. No, because . . . there's stuff going on here too, Marcus. My sister just—Jesus. Yes, I _do_ care . . . I know. It'll get done."

Her voice quiets, becomes more curt. Whatever the douchebag is saying is not going down well at all.

"I've just finished dinner . . . No. Edward is here with Elizabeth."

My ears prick up.

"He's here so he can see the apartment. I want him to like it before she stays— because he's her father, Marcus, that's why. I told you, for the foreseeable future . . . I'm thinking about it."

I hear something that sounds like a piece of silverware hitting the inside of a sink. Hard.

"It's fine, Marcus . . . I'll email them tonight . . . Yeah, I will. Mmmhmm. Yeah. I know. Love you, too. Bye."

There is silence then. And it stretches. Eventually, I place Shortcake gently back in her car seat, and, with my hands in my jeans pockets; make my way quietly into the kitchen. I find Isabella facing away from me with her hands on the side of the sink, head low between her heaving shoulders.

I think she might be crying.

"Hey," I murmur so she doesn't jump. "Everything okay?"

She looks up quickly, instantly plastering a fake smile on her red face. "Oh, yeah. I'm good. Sorry. That was Marcus. He forgets about time zones." She rambles when she's flustered. I'm starting to see a pattern.

I take a step towards her. "He's still in London?"

I see her surreptitiously wipe at the tears on her cheeks as she busies herself with pans and plates.

"Yeah," she says with a hint of bitterness. "Lots to do." She pushes her hair back, sniffs, and looks at me. "He should be over for Christmas."

I shrug. "Well, surely that's good, right?"

She looks away from me, whispering, "Yeah".

I stand there, not knowing what to do, utterly thrown by her tears. I feel like I should do or say something, but I don't have a clue.

I'm about to leave her to her thoughts when she turns back to me. "Hey, Edward, is that Thanksgiving invitation still open?" she asks.

I smile and rub a finger across my chin. "Sure. Why not?"

She stands up straighter and wipes her hands down her thighs. "Okay. Good. Tell your mom I would love to join your family for dinner." The edges of her mouth curve gently. "It would be really nice."

And a small part of me can't help but agree.

**Holy plot thickens, Batman!**

**Thanks so much for all the lovely messages, reviews, and recs.**

**Love, as always, to Purelyamuse who polices my grammar with awesomeness and care.**

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**TTFN xx**


	11. Chapter 10

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Ten**

**I know you think you'd never be mine**

**Well that's okay, baby, I don't mind**

**That shy smile's sweet, that's a fact**

**Go ahead, I don't mind the act**

I pull the mammoth barbell up to my chest, as my legs shake, and blood thunders in my ears. I let out a long breath and drop it down slowly, uncurling my elbows as they scream at me to stop. I do it again, and again.

I've been at this for twenty minutes, and my face, reflected in the mirror, is crimson. It also has lines of fatigue. I'm exhausted, but needs must. I hardly ever get to workout anymore, and, with Isabella looking after Shortcake this afternoon, I couldn't let the opportunity slide.

Behind my deadbeat reflection, Emmett and Tyler are trying to outdo one another on the treadmill. The sound of their feet pounding the belt echoes around the room. Tyler's crazy if he thinks he can win. Emmett's a machine. I'm fit, and I _know_ I can't beat him. I accepted that shit piece of information long ago.

As a group, we meet like this as often as we can. We try to spur each other on, but it always ends up being a testosterone fuelled, my-cock's-bigger-than-your-cock contest.

In that regard, I usually win. The fitness side, I leave to Emmett.

He laughs loudly when Tyler gives up. Poor fucker looks wasted, doubled over the front of the treadmill. I doubt he'd be able to walk if he'd kept going. I smile and finally drop the weight, basking in the workout prickle that radiates through my biceps and shoulders, telling me I've pushed myself enough. I'll probably be sore tomorrow.

Jesus. At twenty-nine, I feel like an old man.

I grab my towel and pat down my chest and face.

I turn to see Emmett jump from the equipment and slap Tyler's shoulder in mock sympathy. Grabbing a water bottle, Emmett pours water over his head and shakes it off like a dog, coating everyone within a ten-foot radius.

"Woo! That's what I'm talking about!" He grins at me and drinks. He's certifiable, I swear to God.

I shake my head and move over to the treadmill, tuning out Emmett's world famous 'I am the king of the gym world' speech. I pop in my ear buds and start at a slow pace. Gradually, as the speed increases, I let my mind drift back two nights ago.

Dinner at Isabella's was an event. We managed to cover some pretty complex, potentially hazardous areas of our relationship—including the rules about her being any kind of presence in my daughter's life—without killing each other. Impressive stuff.

I have to confess, I'm still startled she was so amenable to the whole thing, but, as Alice said, Isabella almost certainly wants us to come to a common understanding as much as I do. As grown up and mature as our conversation was, however, I'm hesitant to believe that the snotty lawyer bitch that showed up on my doorstep two weeks ago has entirely disappeared. But I'll take what I can.

Truthfully, I'm even more intrigued by her now. Seeing her in her apartment, finding out she has a tattoo, and seeing her so upset after talking to her boyfriend has raised more than a few questions I hope will be answered when she comes for dinner tomorrow. To say that Mama was pleased Isabella accepted the Thanksgiving invitation is an understatement. As much as she has stated otherwise, I can't help but feel that she has an ulterior motive. What that _is_ exactly, remains to be seen, but it unnerves me all the same.

I'm sweating like crazy and packing my gym bag when Emmett appears at my side, grin in place.

"So," he says with a waggle of his enormous eyebrows. "The Thanksgiving show at the club, on Friday. You know what you're doing?"

I smirk and nod. "It's under control."

He laughs loudly. "My man. I know it is, I know. Hey, we're having a party at my place after the show. Rosalie has invited the girls." He nudges my elbow with his. "Charlotte and her crew, you know?"

"I can't," I say quickly, strangely okay with the fact that I won't be attending. Ordinarily, I would be all about the pussy and the beer, but things have changed. Fuck, I _am_ an old man. "I don't have a babysitter."

His smile falters. "You can't ask your mom?"

I smile gently. "No." I clap him on the back. "Thanks, though. I appreciate the invitation."

I walk past him, waving my goodbyes to the other guys with a two finger salute. Before I make it to the door, however, Emmett's hand grasps my bicep, and I stop, turning to look at him curiously.

"Look, Ed," he begins, furtively glancing over at Tyler, checking, I assume, whether he is within earshot. "You know I support you, right?" I nod. "And you know that I appreciate your situation."

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering where the hell he is going with this. Emmett is never quiet or subtle. Something's up. I sigh, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "What is it, Emmett?"

His mouth pulls into a tight disingenuous smile that instantly has me on the defensive. "Just hear me out, okay?" He holds his hands up, palms facing me. "I'm happy for you, I am. I think it's a fucking great thing you're doing with your baby girl, and all. But it'd be good if you could, you know, show your face some more; see the girls. They see you in the club, but sometimes . . . you know, it's not enough to keep them coming back. They like you, man. They pay good money to see you."

He laughs then, but it isn't loud and boisterous. It's tense.

I huff a disbelieving breath when my brain catches up with the conversation. "You want me to come so they pay more at the club."

He shrugs, not even denying it. "They like ya; they pay to see ya. It's that simple, my friend. Think of it as publicity."

"Emmett," I say carefully. "I'm a stripper, not a fucking prostitute."

He blinks. "I know that."

"What's more, I don't do shit like that anymore," I continue. "I don't fuck around. I'm done. I've more important things to think about. I have priorities. Like my daughter. Besides, Charlotte knows the deal." It's a slight deviation from the truth, but I'm pissed. "I'm spending Thanksgiving with my family; I'm doing the show and going home." I say it slowly and firmly so the message is clear.

His eyes trace over my face before he exhales despondently. He stares towards the floor. "I hear ya," he says quietly. "I get it. I'm sorry. I just want you there, Ed. The party only gets going when you're there."

Lifting his gaze back to mine, he smiles broadly, and my irritation begins to subside.

"It's alright." I run my hands through my hair. "I'm really trying here, man. Okay. I'm trying to be . . . responsible." I rub my neck, feeling awkward.

The word itself doesn't me cringe, but the sound of it coming from my own mouth does. Never would I have thought I'd say it much less try and _be_ it. But the reality is, I need to. I have to for Shortcake. I need to stop being an immature prick who thinks only with his cock and grow up. She's all that matters.

Emmett dips his chin in agreement. "And I respect that. Don't want you to be left behind, is all. We always have a great time."

I clear my throat, and my eyes meet the ceiling. "Fuck," I groan, hating myself. "You're killing me." I sigh, feeling torn, feeling weak, feeling disgusted. "If I can, I'll make a quick stop." I point at him, despising the words as I say them. "No promises."

He claps and whoops. "There's my Coda! That's right!" I turn from him as he continues. "I'll have a Jack and ice ready for you, brother!"

I don't doubt it.

=DitD=

Mama Esme's Thanksgiving dinner is world famous. Well, not quite, but it fucking should be. The house is bursting with the smell of pumpkin pie, potatoes, turkey, and deliciousness, and my mouth starts watering the moment I arrive with Shortcake. The house is also filled with chaos and noise, supplied lovingly by my sister and her family.

James is adamant that he be able to watch his Avengers DVD because Alice promised, and, after a lengthy talking to from Jasper about sitting quietly while watching it, he and William, sit on the sofa, quiet as damned mice.

"Wow," I marvel, watching the film discreetly from the corner of my eye. It looks freaking awesome, and I make a mental note to purchase the DVD as soon as I can. "And when can I start using films to keep Shortcake quiet?" I look down at my daughter as she snoozes in her car seat and, honestly, it seems a long way off.

Alice rolls her eyes at me. "It's educational."

I look back at the TV to see Scarlett Johansson kicking ass. "Damn. That's my kind of education."

"Wait until she's dressed in her black cat suit," Jasper whispers at my side, watching with me just as intently.

"Spank bank worthy?" I ask.

"Oh yeah."

"You two are filth," Alice admonishes as she walks to the dining room with silverware and napkins. "Make yourselves useful and help with the table."

Chuckling to ourselves, Jasper and I grab dishes, plates, and anything else Mama gives us, and assist in making the table look pretty. As is the protocol every year, Carlisle stays hidden in the den, watching the game. The odd grumble and loud curse emits sporadically through the sliding doors, much to the chagrin of Mama and the amusement of Jasper and me. My uncle hardly ever swears, so hearing it is funny as hell.

When the doorbell rings thirty minutes later, I'm immediately fidgety and anxious. I have no idea how today is going to go. I don't know what mood Isabella will be in, and I begin to fret that she will be back to her quiet, distant self. I hope beyond hope that the woman on the other side of the door is the woman I spent a pleasant evening with three nights ago.

I open the door gradually, finding Isabella standing on the stoop, looking frozen, bottle of wine in hand.

"Hey." I smile and quickly usher her in from the cold.

As she walks past me, bringing the frosty air in with her, I catch the scent of her perfume, which is deep, warm, and rich. I recognise it right away, and I realise with a start that I've been breathing that same fragrance from my pillow for the past week.

"You smell good," I blurt. It's true. I like it. It's not strong and overpowering like the perfume girls at the club wear. It's subtle and sexy.

Isabella stares at me for a moment before she starts to unfasten her coat. "Thank you. So do you."

I shrug. "I know." I smile when she laughs lightly. It's a good start. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Happy Thanksgiving to you," she replies with a grin, offering me the wine. I take it from her and smirk when I notice that it's my favourite. We discussed wine over her lasagne, and I'm more than a little impressed she remembered.

Mama Esme hurries into the hallway amid a flurry of apologies, followed by my sister and Jasper. I watch in an amazed stupor when Mama pulls Isabella in for a hug. I have to give the poor girl credit; she hugs her back as best as she can, hiding her own shock like a champ. Alice greets her in the same way, while Jasper gives her a polite handshake.

He moves to stand next to me. As we watch the three chatting women move to the sitting room, he nudges me hard in the ribs.

"You didn't tell me she was hot, dude!" he hisses.

I snort at his wide eyes and holy-shit expression. "Oh, come on," I retort quietly. "Calm down. She's not _that_ hot."

Jasper frowns in what looks like utter disbelief. "Are you insane? Or sick?"

I glance back over at Isabella to see what all the fuss is about, taking in her cream sweater and black jeans. She's attractive, of course. I see and appreciate that. Maybe even pretty. But hot? I can't deny she's got a rocking body. She has nice, long legs, and her ass looks great in denim. From what I've seen, she has a nice rack, and I like her big, deep brown eyes. But she never wears her hair down, and that fact alone bothers me to an inexplicable degree.

She peeks back at me, catching my stare, and the red of her cold cheeks deepens infinitesimally.

Jasper coughs a laugh and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. "Well, she certainly thinks _you _are."

My head snaps to him. "What?" I turn back to see Isabella disappear into the kitchen. I face my brother-in-law, pinning him with a pointed stare. "_What_ are you talking about?"

Jasper holds his hands up in defence, smiling. "Hey, dude. I just say what I see."

He hurries after his wife, leaving me alone in the hallway, bottle of wine in my hand, entirely confused. I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension start below my hairline as my brain starts to work a mile a minute.

Is Jasper right? Does Isabella see me that way? Honestly, I'd never even considered it. She's always been so defensive, prickly, rude even. True, there have been glimmers of loveliness and sensitivity, but they've been so fleeting, I almost missed them. I'd always thought she behaves the way she does because she has a superiority complex, not because she . . . _likes_ me.

I rub my fingers over my eyes. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. _Christ_. I know I'm getting ahead of myself and jumping to conclusions that have zero basis. Isabella's pleasant enough, and I've seen more smiles recently, but that doesn't mean anything. Plenty of people smile without it meaning anything other than one person being nice to another. Truthfully, I'm only relieved that Isabella and I are over the whole awkward, stink eye stage. We've made progress. That's all. We're tolerating one another, being mature.

No.

Jasper's wrong about Isabella, and I intend to forget he ever mentioned it.

I huff with a mixture of resolve and aggravation, wanting nothing more than to throttle Jasper Whitlock with my bare hands, and follow the sound of laughter into the kitchen. I walk in to see Isabella standing with a glass of wine, smiling as Alice tells her all about her sporadic interior design work. I watch Isabella with a new awareness that irritates me to the point of homicide, noting with equal annoyance that the redness of her cheeks has disappeared.

"Anything you need doing on your new apartment, let me know," Alice says. "As James gets older, I'll have more time to focus on my little business. It'll be affordable and tasteful work. Trust."

Isabella tips her glass towards my sister. "Great tag line."

Alice beams.

"Don't listen to her," I say to Isabella, making her turn quickly. "She tried decorating my daughter's room with fucking bears."

I walk past them both, smiling at Alice's retorts. I place the wine in the fridge and grab myself a beer. I definitely need one.

"He thinks because he paints and draws like Da Vinci that he has some artistic licence to comment on stuff like that," Alice grumbles.

I hold the beer bottle to my lips as her words echo around the kitchen.

Son of a bitch.

Isabella's eyes widen slightly. "You paint?"

I release the bottle with a pop, glaring at my sister who—realising her slip—is trying to hide behind her wine glass.

I exhale loudly down my nose. "I dabble," I answer dismissively. "Amateur shit. Nothing fancy."

"Bullshit," Jasper joins in from across the room. He looks at Isabella. "He's being modest for once in his life. He's really good. Sold a few pieces, too." He glances casually back at me.

"A slow and painful death, Whitlock," I warn with narrow eyes. "Seriously, man."

He laughs, and I feel my masculinity ebb quietly out of the door.

The pair of them can go to hell. They know I don't talk about my painting. It's a personal choice because of what painting and drawing represents to me. I began drawing when my mom first got sick. I found it helped with the healing and the understanding of what was happening to my family. It was cathartic in that I drew my feelings of anger and sadness as opposed to talking about them. Very emo of me, I know. The thing is I didn't realise how good I actually was until I started. Jasper is right; I am_ really_ good.

My drawings changed from sketches to felt pens to paint. Paint is great; I love its fluidity, its changeability, and its smoothness, and I found, after Mom died, I could express myself easier with it. But sketching is still one of my most favourite things. I haven't done it in a while.

"I'd love to see some of your work one day," Isabella says.

I blink in surprise before giving an indifferent shrug. "Yeah, well, I don't keep a lot of it. I don't know where most of it is so—"

"There's some in the hallway and the study."

My mouth drops open when Mama's head appears around the pantry doorjamb with this nugget of information.

"Mama!" I snap then drop my arms in defeat when Alice grabs Isabella's arm and leads her back out to the hallway. Fuckers. All of them.

After checking on Shortcake, and finding her still asleep, I follow them with dragging feet, like a petulant child, as Alice blathers on about which paintings are mine and when I did them. Isabella looks suitably impressed, which is a relief. I see her eyes narrow slightly, as they did when they saw the paintings in my apartment. I know she has an appreciation for good art. The paintings in her apartment show her affection for it. She sees art the way I do: underneath the brush strokes, where the meanings and messages really lie.

"These are fantastic," she says softly. Her fingers twitch as if she might touch the canvas, and I smile. "Your colour awareness is really good."

I clear my throat. I am completely uncomfortable. "Thanks."

Jasper nods and grins at me like a proud parent. I flip him off.

"Did you draw this from something else?" Isabella asks.

My bemusement increases. She's good. "Yeah. I took a few photographs and then painted my interpretation." I move closer to her and point to the larger painting. "This is the back yard of Mama's house. And this," I point to the smaller one, "was a photo of the Seattle skyline."

She nods. I don't know if she sees it, but I like that she tries.

"They're lovely," she murmurs. Her eyes never leave the paintings. "You should do this more often, Edward. You have talent."

I cough an embarrassed laugh, noticing Jasper and Alice wandering quietly back to the kitchen. "I'm not sure about that."

"Leah used to draw." Her words are quiet.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean my shoulder against the wall. "She did?"

Isabella nods and presses her lips together. "She used to get sick a lot when we were kids; tonsillitis, ear infections, and chest infections. She had time off school. She'd sit at her bedroom window and draw. It was kid's stuff, you know, but I kept everything she ever did." She looks up at me, and the pain in her eyes is overwhelming. "I can't draw to save my life. It was enough to have Leah's work."

I nod slowly and smile gently. I understand. I have belongings of my mother's I keep in a drawer that's rarely opened: her hairbrush, some jewellery, some photographs she took. Having things that belonged to someone special after they have gone is both a blessing and a curse. It's a shitty substitute to having the person alive and with you, but you wouldn't trade the connection for all the world.

"I'd like to see that one day," I say. "Who knows, with all this fucking talent flying around, maybe Shortcake will be a world famous painter."

Isabella laughs with me then, and the sound makes my chest strangely tight.

"Or a dancer?" she adds.

I look towards the floor. "Yeah, maybe."

Isabella sips her wine, her gaze still on mine. "I took ballet as a kid."

My stare snaps to hers, and I gawp. "You did?"

She chuckles and nods. "Yeah. I started when I was five until I was about sixteen."

I frown in surprise. "That's pretty high level shit. You must have been good."

She shakes her head, but from the lift of her shoulders and the curve of the smile my compliment draws from her, I know she's being modest.

"I did ballet, too," I confess with an exaggerated sigh.

"I know," Isabella replies. "Victoria told me. Although, I had an inkling when your . . . girlfriend called you Coda."

My eyes narrow in confusion. "Girlfriend?" And then it hits me. "Oh, you mean Charlotte. No, she's not my—well, we hang a lot, sure, but we're not, you know." I point backwards, over my shoulder as if it will explain things better. "She works at another club. She dances, too, and we just, you know, hang out sometimes. Sometimes together, but mostly as a group, you know, with the other girls and the guys. Chilling and shit and—"

I push my hands into my pockets, hoping that the action will stop my fucking mouth from working. But it doesn't stop. "She stays over sometimes," I mutter.

My stammering is completely uncharacteristic. I can't understand why the woman standing in front of me gets me so damned mixed up. It shouldn't matter whether Charlotte is my girlfriend, friend, or fuck buddy. My life is my own, and the fact that I feel the need to explain things to Isabella makes my head spin.

Isabella, however, appears entirely unfazed. She's silent as she smirks. "Why Coda, though?" she asks before the uncomfortable silence can eat away at me anymore. "What does it mean to you?"

I open my mouth a couple of times, but nothing comes out. I'm stunned to shit she hasn't asked more about Charlotte or made some sarcastic comment about my stupid verbal vomit. I run an agitated hand through my hair and pull restlessly at the collar on my white button down.

"Um . . . when I was nine," I begin, "I was one of the main dancers in a show my dance company performed in Seattle. At the finale, when the whole cast came on, I was so excited that I'd done it without falling flat on my face and my mom was there to see it that, instead of dancing upstage centre like I'd been told, I pushed my way to the front and danced my ass off."

Isabella laughs again. I smile and laugh with her.

"My dance teacher went batshit, but my mom was _so _proud. The name Coda stuck. I was the main event at the end of the show. '_You_ were the finale, my little Coda,' Mom would say."

I shake my head and take a deep breath. The memory always leaves me a little breathless. My heart quietly aches as I remember the look of absolute delight on my mom's face as I span and leapt like a demon across the stage.

"That's a great memory," Isabella muses quietly, trailing her index finger around the rim of her wine glass.

"Yeah," I reply, rubbing my chin with my palm. "I loved performing with that company."

"Why did you stop?"

I sigh. "I was seventeen. I bust my knee. That was the end of that." As simple as it sounds, the devastation at being told I couldn't ever do ballet again still flickers deep in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," Isabella says. Her eyes are wide and honest. I know she means it.

I shrug. "Shit happens, right?"

She smiles sadly and nods. We stare at each other then. It's only for a couple of seconds, but it's enough for me to realise that, during our conversation, we've hurdled over a million walls and canyons that have been both high and deep between us. We've finally reached a common ground, and the relief is tangible. We're not BFFs by any stretch, but we've come a long way in a short time, and I'm proud. Isabella's face tells me the moment she realises the same thing. It's a good feeling.

The sound of Shortcake's loud, hungry cry reaches us, pulling me from Isabella's eyes. I leave her at the paintings and hurry down the hallway to the kitchen where Alice is unbuckling Elizabeth from her seat. A bottle of milk sits on the table.

"I've got it," I tell my sister, moving her to the side so I can pick up my daughter. She's warm as toast. Her small legs are scrunched up tightly as I lift her and tuck her safely under my chin.

"Hey, baby girl," I whisper into her auburn hair, while patting a hand down the back of her pink dress. "You can smell the turkey, huh?"

She warbles into my neck, and I carry her, her bottle, and a towel to the sitting room to feed her. Isabella smiles at me as I walk past. She follows me, as does Alice, but they stay in the doorway as I take a seat. James and William are still glued to the TV. I watch with them as Iron Man blasts his way around New York, and it's cool as hell.

Shortcake takes her bottle as if it's her job, and, once she's finished, I sit for five minutes rubbing her back before she burps. James and William laugh at the loud, grateful noise that comes from her tiny mouth.

"That soundsded like Daddy!" James shouts as he collapses in giggles against the cushions of the sofa. Alice's laugh echoes around the room.

Thoroughly stuffed and with wide-open eyes, Shortcake lies in my arms, staring at me as if she knows exactly who I am. I smile at her, placing my finger in her hand, while my thumb whispers across her soft cheek. Her mouth opens and stretches, emitting small squeaks and noises that make my tattooed heart thump hard behind my ribs.

I sense Isabella move closer until she is standing at the side of my chair. "She's so happy," she whispers.

I nod slowly in agreement as I look up at her. "Hey, I'm working tomorrow night. Could you babysit?"

"Sure." Isabella nibbles her bottom lip. "I can come to your place?"

"Absolutely," I reply. "I might be a little later than last time. But you can stay. The spare room is made up."

She shrugs. "Okay."

"Thanks."

I turn back to my daughter. Letting my gaze travel gradually from the top of Shortcake's head to her small kicking feet, I become conscious of just how much she has changed. She grows every day. Since we first met, a little over a month ago, her face has become rounder, chubbier, her hair has grown, and her eyes are brighter, bluer.

And, with every small difference in her, I know that she takes ownership of another piece of my all too willing heart. I'm not stupid enough to deny the fact that I'm falling in love with my daughter. Maybe I'm already there. She's just about the most precious, most perfect creature I've ever seen. She's altered my life in a way I never thought I would appreciate. I miss her when we're apart, and I look forward to seeing her beautiful face every morning. My life, so random and chaotic before, now has meaning and purpose.

I lean down and kiss her cheek, breathing her in, feeling truly thankful.

=DitD=

The Thanksgiving show—excluding Christmas and July Fourth—is my favourite show of the year at Eclipse. The atmosphere is _always_ electric, but there's something about Thanksgiving which makes everyone go a little bit more crazy, a little bit more uninhibited and wild. It's probably the prospect of a long weekend that gets everyone's engine revving that much higher.

No matter the cause, it's always an epic night.

Tonight is no exception. The club is packed with wanton women of all ages, knocking back the cocktail of the night with little regard for the killer hangover that awaits them come the morning. I smile, watching through a gap in the stage curtain. They've been a great crowd. We're half way through the set, and I'm up next. My solo dance.

Emmett—dressed in nothing but a thong with brown, turkey feathers attached—starts to encourage their hollers for me. He claps and cheers himself, whooping from his spot on the stage. Within seconds, the decibel level has reached epic proportions, and the hairs on my arms stand up eagerly. I close my eyes, as I always do, and let the opening beats of the music reverberate in my chest and in the balls of my bare feet.

I'm wearing a brown suede waistcoat and matching assless pants. My hair is styled in an ambitious mohawk, spray painted enthusiastically by Pete so it's now bright red. I have green and red lines under my dark rimmed eyes, and I'm holding a small axe. My bare chest glimmers with oil and glitter.

Tonight, I am a brave Red Indian warrior, performing a special dance for one lucky lady.

I like these dances, prefer them. It's more intimate and personal. Some women pay a lot of dollars to have the three tables closest to the stage. They have more chance of being picked to participate that way. I imagine for many of them being touched and danced for by me is the highlight of their week, while their boring as all fuck husbands, boyfriends, and partners wait at home, never giving these women the intimacy so many of them crave. For six minutes I give them what they want. I turn them on, grind it up, and submit to their deepest desires. I tease and titillate and make them gasp and pay for more.

The lights go out, and the music gets louder. There is the sound of horses galloping, and I spring onto the stage under hot lights and hotter gazes. I'm crouched, ready to pounce. I move to one side of the stage and open my waistcoat. I let them see the goods. Writhing, I drop down and let them almost touch it. I crawl on all fours to the other side, dropping my hips to the floor. Once, twice, three times, drawing screams and shouts from the crowd.

I turn and shake my ass. The sound in the place goes nuclear. I look back. I wink, and I'm cool as fuck. Patting my hand to my open mouth, I make a loud Indian whoop, and the women echo it. I put the axe between my legs, and I thrust upwards, playing with the end like it's a cock. I know that's what the women see. They picture _my_ cock. They want it.

The girl, who has paid to have me for six minutes, is seated in the chair at the front of the stage, blindfolded. She's safe. She'll have asked for this specifically. I'm not worried. Emmett has told me that she has no limits to what she will allow me to do. These are the best clients. I move over to her, dipping and moving like liquid across the stage floor. I drop my axe and put my legs on either side of her thighs. I lift her wrists gently, whispering that she's okay, and place her hands on my chest. The room walls bend with the noise from the crowd.

She lets her palms run up and down my skin. She laughs and squeals when she feels my abs and grips them a little too tight. I pull off my waistcoat and toss it to the front table. I turn and face the crowd, too quickly for her to move her hands which immediately find my ass. She squeezes as I rub my chest, my stomach, my crotch. Her nails pinch my flesh, but it feels great.

I'll have marks in the morning. I always do. There'll be nail marks, pinch marks, slap marks, and that's fine. They don't hurt.

They're marks I've worked for.

=DitD=

Emmett's place is jumping when I arrive a little after two AM. I walk through the front door, knowing I should be on my way home. Isabella is staying, so I know she's alright and doesn't have to drive at stupid o'clock on a Saturday morning. The simple fact is, as pussy as it may sound, I don't want or need Emmett on my case about this. And, honestly, I feel like I owe him. He's done so much for me. The least I can do is show up to his damned party.

I promise myself I'll stay for one drink, say hello to everyone, and then leave.

I'm accosted by two of the bar girls as soon as I walk into the sitting room. Tanya and Lauren are high and tactile. They tell three of the friends they have brought who I am, and the three girls smile and fluff their hair. I'm as polite as I can be. I recognise them. They come to the club a lot. Emmett was talking about _these_ girls. The girls who pay hefty dollars to see the boys and me. They're harmless and flirty, but I'm not in the mood. I give them each a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek, teasing them just enough, before I steal away as subtly as I can. Moving towards the kitchen, I notice people sitting, kissing, and dry humping on Emmett's large plush sofas as I walk by. Same shit. Different day.

After I put my jacket on the back of a kitchen chair, Pete yells and whoops when he sees me and thrusts a glass of tepid beer into my hand Emmett stands in the corner of the room, and, from what I can see, is getting a hand job from Rosalie. He winks at me over her shoulder, and I shake my head. Fucking Emmett.

"Great show tonight, man," Mike slurs from his position at the sink. "That Red Indian shit? Dude, that woman was about ready to fuck your brains out!"

I laugh. "Then I did my job."

"You did good, Coda." I turn to see Emmett—cock thankfully away in his pants—standing with a shot of tequila in his hand. He hands it to me. "My boy."

I tip the shot glass towards him in thanks and pour it into a glass of beer sitting on the counter when he shoots his. He's too high and drunk to notice, which I'm more than grateful for. He winds an arm around my shoulder and walks me to the back room, which is quieter and less full of humping bodies. We drop onto a sofa, and I rub a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling tired.

"I didn't think you'd show," Emmett says, pulling a blunt from his pocket. He lights it, draws back on it heavily, and blows it towards the ceiling. It smells amazing.

"I know," I reply, sipping my beer. "But you know I'm a stubborn fucker."

He chuckles. "That you are."

Behind him, Rosalie and Charlotte sashay into the room. Charlotte smiles at me, and I smile back. She looks incredible in tight blue jeans and an even tighter black t-shirt. She takes a seat next to me while Rosalie sits on Emmett's lap.

"How are you?" I ask as Charlotte crosses her legs.

"I'm fine. How're you?" She lets her index finger skim down my bicep. "You look good," she says, checking out my red Mohawk.

"You too," I reply before I sip my beer. "And I'm well."

Her hand falls to my leg, and her fingers start to massage the inside of my thigh. To my left, Emmett and Rosalie are kissing loudly, and, from the sounds Rosalie is making, Emmett's hands are wandering.

"It's been a while," Charlotte purrs, moving closer to me, pushing her hand between my legs. She smells nice, though her perfume is stronger, more pungent than I remember. She's sexy as hell, and I know that she would fuck the tired right out of me. Nevertheless, I lift her hand gently from where it's almost rubbing my half-hard cock.

She kisses the side of my mouth, ignoring my stopping her, and then puts her mouth on mine. Charlotte is a great kisser. Her mouth is always impressive no matter where it is. I kiss her back, of course, and she tastes nice, but I don't deepen it. I shouldn't feel like an asshole, but I do, as I cup her face and push her away gently. I smile to ease the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

She sits back from me, but it isn't in anger, it's more in surprise. "Are you alright?"

I nod, dropping my hand from her face. "Yeah, I am. I'm just . . . not tonight, okay?"

Her head cocks to the right. Her expression is one of curiosity. "What's up with you?"

I turn back to Emmett and Rosalie who are practically fucking next to us. I grab Charlotte's hand.

"Come with me."

I lead her up the stairs to Emmett's bedroom. I lock the door and gesture for her to take a seat on the bed.

"Emmett will flip his shit if we fuck in here," she comments, though she sits on the edge of the bed, knowing that's not going to happen.

"I have a baby, Charlotte," I say quickly, still standing by the door.

She stares at me, staying silent.

"I found out at Halloween. The mother, Leah, she died. I'm raising her alone. Well, not alone, I have joint custody of her with Leah's sister, Isabella—"

"Ah," she interrupts me. "So that's what's up. You're hot for this chick."

I blink, momentarily thrown by her assumption. "What? No. No, it's not like that. We're just raising Shortcake together."

"Shortcake?"

I sigh and rub a hand across my forehead. "Elizabeth, my daughter."

She leans back on her hands and nods. "Wow."

"Yeah," I reply lamely. I walk slowly towards the bed and sit down beside her. I knot my fingers together and drop them between my knees. "It's been a hell of a month, Charlotte. I'm trying to be better, less of a prick. I need to put her first. I can't be fucking around the way I was."

After a moment of silence, she nudges my shoulder with hers. "But you're doing it, right?"

I turn my head to look at her. "I am."

"Then it's all good." She wraps an arm around my waist, but there is no sexual intent. In fact, it's comforting. "Don't worry about me, honey. I'm good. I think it's a decent thing that you're doing. And trust me; the new improved Coda is just as sexy as the old one."

I laugh. "I don't feel fucking sexy," I admit. I'm tired and anxious to get home.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't. You know you have the power and hair to incinerate panties within a ten mile radius."

I snort and shake my head. Charlotte kisses my shoulder tenderly. "Thanks," I murmur.

"No problem," she answers. She pushes me away and pulls a cigarette from the packet held in her bra strap. "Now go home to your daughter. I'll tell Emmett you fucked me blind and left."

I smirk. "You're a princess."

I kiss her quickly and stand, making my way to the door. With my fingers on the handle, I turn back to her. "Take care, Charlotte," I say. "Call me."

She laughs through a plume of smoke. "You know I won't."

I smile and nod. "I know. But if you need anything."

She looks genuinely grateful. "Thank you."

Once I'm down the stairs, I grab my coat from the kitchen and beat a hasty retreat out the front door.

=DitD=

My apartment is in darkness when I walk through the door twenty minutes later. I'm not surprised; it's past three in the morning. I wander through to the sitting room to find the TV playing silently to itself, and Isabella fast asleep on the sofa. Her small hands are tucked under her face, and her knees are pulled up to her stomach. The baby monitor is sitting on the coffee table, and I immediately go to my room where Shortcake's bassinet stays.

Quietly opening my door, I see Shortcake, sound asleep on her front; her small auburn head, poking from beneath the blanket. I adjust it, feeling her neck to make sure she's not too warm and place a kiss on her hand.

"Dream sweet, baby girl."

I leave my door open slightly, in case she wakes. Back in the living room, I stand next to the sofa and try to wake Isabella. She can't sleep on the sofa. She'll freeze. I whisper her name but get nothing but a hum in response. I smile when she mumbles and snuggles closer into the cushion.

"Come on," I whisper. "Wake up. You need to get into bed."

Cautiously, I put my hand on her arm and rub gently in an attempt at rousing her. Her arm is petite in my hand as is her shoulder. She moves slightly.

"It's alright," I tell her. "It's just me."

"Edward." Her voice is full of sleep.

I smile. "Yeah, I'm home. You need to get into bed."

She smiles with her eyes still closed and sighs. Gently, and not really knowing why, I place my hand on her hair and stroke my palm across it. It's so soft. I do it again. Oddly, the sensation that appears in my hand as I do, makes me relaxed, almost sleepy.

"Isabella," I try again, but she's out for the count.

Shaking my head in bemusement, I go to my linen closet and get two thick blankets I hope will keep her warm. I lay them over her as carefully as I can and tuck them under her feet and around her waist, which is small yet curvy.

I turn off the TV and baby monitor, grab a bottle of water, which I place next to her, and make sure the thermostat is set high enough to keep her warm. I stand, watching her in the darkness, just in case she wakes up. She doesn't, and the slight pang of disappointment that emerges in my chest is enough to make me splash cold water onto my face when I get to the bathroom.

With my teeth brushed and my clothes in the laundry basket, I slip underneath my sheets, not caring about the red dye still in my hair. I lie with my arms behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. As tired as I felt earlier, I'm now wide-awake.

My mind is working overtime. It's not only that my brain is wrestling with the pathetic realisation that this is the first time a woman has ever slept at my place with no intimacy involved, but it's also grappling with the idea that I would want any intimacy with Isabella at all.

I don't, I tell myself. I barely know the woman. I barely like her.

No. That's not true.

We have spent time together where I've seen a side of her that is . . . nice. We talked for a long time on Thanksgiving. She was funny and charming. My family seems to adore her already, which is great, but I'm not entirely sure what I'm meant to do with that. The sensation of panic that fills my stomach is slight but strong enough to keep my eyes awake.

"Get a grip, Cullen," I mutter to myself.

I roll over onto my side and stare at my door. I should have fucked Charlotte, I concede. I should have gotten it all out of my system. That's all I'm feeling, I surmise: I'm horny. It's _that _simple. I've had a great night at the club. The women were all over me. Charlotte was hot and eager. Typically, I would have been at Emmett's all night, balls deep in some hot piece of ass.

I exhale in frustration.

I don't even get chance to whack off anymore. It's no wonder I'm wired.

Satisfied that I'm having a stupendously ridiculous moment of insanity in terms of Isabella, I close my eyes and think about something else. I think about Shortcake and her gummy smile, her smell, and the way she fits perfectly under my chin. I start to breathe slower. I start to calm down.

Nevertheless, the odd but undisputable tingling sensation that has resided in my hand since I touched Isabella's hair continues until I fall asleep.

**Holy sexy tingles, Batman!**

**Love to the wonderful Purelyamuse who is my grammar queen and captain. You rock hard, Cap.**

**In answer to some reviewers' question, Alice told Edward that Isabella had a boyfriend after she'd Googled her in chapter 6.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	12. Chapter 11

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Eleven**

**My body's on fire**

**And I can't stand the pain**

**This burning desire**

**I feel once again**

I hate Christmas shopping. _Hate_ it. Despise it even.

If there were a choice between having my balls put into a steel vice and Christmas shopping in Seattle the first week of December, the former would win every time. Being a man, I have never enjoyed any form of purchasing, especially when the entire world goes batshit crazy and descends onto the city. Add in the snow, and I'm in my own personal hell on Earth.

I trudge behind Alice, dodging stupid people laden with bags, freezing my vice preferring balls off. It's only the first Saturday of December and already the place is filled to the brim with festive happy chumps. I'm not a Scrooge, I swear. I like the family side of Christmas, and I know this year will be extra special having Shortcake, but my patience is already wearing thin.

We arrive at Toys R Us, and Alice all but runs to the baby aisle. I'm utterly flummoxed. Shortcake's five weeks old. She's not going to know what the fuck Christmas is, let alone care what presents she gets. I've already bought her a doll and some new bedtime onesies. What more does she need?

Alice starts oohing and ahhing at the plush toys, and I stand at her side, feeling like a spare part.

"Why are we here?" I grumble. "Can't we look at stuff for James and William?"

At least then I'd be a lot more engaged. The comic book stuff would be more than enough to keep me occupied while Alice goes fanatical over the baby stuff.

"Stop being miserable," she replies. "This is your daughter's first Christmas. You should be getting into the spirit."

"I'll be in the spirit on Christmas Day," I retort. "Not three weeks before. Besides, Shortcake doesn't know what Christmas is."

"That's not the point," Alice answers with a sigh, shoving a plush cat at me.

"She's got enough fucking toys." I put it back on the shelf as Alice turns from me.

We spend almost an hour in the damned place, and I'm about to cut a bitch by the time we head to the checkout. Shortcake now has two more plush toys, a new set of onesies, a set of bibs, and a play mat. I may have chosen the play mat myself. It looks cool as hell with mirrors and parts that beep, squeak, and ring. Maybe the morning wasn't a total bust.

I arrive back at my apartment, feeling as if I've run a marathon. I open the door and drop all of my bags by the side table along with my keys and wallet. I pause in removing my jacket, motionless with the leather at my elbows, when I hear music—Bruce Springsteen—and . . . singing?

As quietly as I can, I wander towards the kitchen and peep gradually around the doorjamb.

What I see just about floors me.

With Shortcake in her arms, Isabella is dancing and singing from one side of the kitchen to the other. The sounds of Born in the USA reverberate around the room, and Isabella bops and wiggles in small circles, smiling down at my daughter. Her eyes are wide and bright, and, I have to admit, she's moving her hips really well. Deliciously so.

Pulling my jacket all the way off, as well as my beanie, I lean my shoulder against the doorjamb and watch her. Never once does she look up at me. Her attention is on Shortcake, and my heart shudders with relief. I've wanted this for what feels like forever. I've wanted Isabella to be relaxed and happy around Shortcake. And she is.

From the lightness of her movements, to the carefree expression on her face, Isabella looks not only happy but beautiful. I start slightly, almost paralysed as I stare at her. She looks completely different. The weariness that typically etches her face and makes her shoulders droop is gone, making her look so much younger. She has a bounce in her step, and the undeniable pain that seems to follow her like a heavy fog has lifted, leaving light and joy. She's exquisite.

It's been over a week since Thanksgiving. Since Jasper planted a seed he had no fucking right to. Since Isabella stayed at my apartment. Since I thought about her in a way I shouldn't. I haven't _allowed_ myself to think about it, knowing how stupid and dangerous it is. But, seeing her this way, it's hard for me to deny the warmth that radiates from the centre of my stomach as I look at her.

I've felt the warmth before, perhaps not as deep-rooted or as quickly, but I know what it means: I'm attracted to her. I'm attracted to her, and I shouldn't be. I have no damned business to be. The list of reasons is long: number one being that she has a boyfriend. He sounds like an utter fucking douchebag, but I have to respect his relationship with Isabella. Then there's the reality that she's Shortcake's aunt. Okay, it's not by blood, but it still makes me cautious: It would complicate an already complex situation. The cons far outweigh the pros of the situation.

The music fades as the song ends, and I stand, clapping my hands loudly before whistling through my fingers. Isabella's face is priceless. I laugh when she stands stock still in the centre of my kitchen with a face the colour of a strawberry. I buckle over laughing harder when she hurries to Shortcake's seat and places her in it carefully. She smoothes down her tee and tucks her wayward hair, which always comes out of her clip, behind her ears.

"Very impressive, Miss Swan," I tease, walking towards her slowly, while she busies herself with shit that doesn't need to be busied with.

"I didn't know you were back," she mumbles, wiping furiously at the counter top.

"Clearly," I say with a smirk. I stop her side and place my hand over hers, stopping her panicked movement. "You're pretty good, you know?" I lift her warm hand, ignoring the subtle tingle under my skin as I touch her, and push her gently under my arm in a slow turn.

Her mouth pops open, but, before she can protest, I bring her back. This time she goes with it, chuckling as she turns. With my free hand I grab her waist, pulling her closer, and move with her in a quick box step turn—which she handles admirably—before I spin her again and dip her backwards, holding her tightly so she knows she won't fall. She laughs, leaning her head back further, and I let my eyes drink in the perfect curve of her neck. Her skin is almost translucent, and the sudden urge to lick her pulse point has me bringing her back up quickly.

I release her and smile. I'm more than a little flustered and a lot tight in the groin area, but she doesn't seem to notice. The adorable pink of her cheeks, however, suggests she's just as affected. She clears her throat, and, without a word, moves to grab two mugs from the cupboard to pour some coffee.

Over the past week we seem to have become somewhat domesticated. She spends a lot of her time here, babysitting Shortcake as much as she can. Though, thankfully she hasn't stayed over again. In truth, I don't know how she keeps up with her work. It's fine, though. Now that she's chilled out and found her sense of humour, I like having her around. Plus, it takes the pressure off Alice and Mama.

She hands me my hot mug, and I move over to Shortcake. I tap my fingertips gently against her round belly."How's it going, beautiful?"

She's barely awake. Her blue eyes roll gently under the lids. I notice her cheeks are slightly red and touch her forehead.

"She feels a little warm," I say, putting my coffee onto the table before pulling the thermometer from her diaper bag and placing it carefully under her arm.

Isabella puts the back of her hand to Shortcake's forehead and frowns. "She didn't finish her bottle earlier."

After the required time, I remove the thermometer and check it. "It's higher but not overly," I note, yet the anxiety from the mere possibility of her being sick, still cloaks me.

Isabella shrugs. "Maybe she's got a chill?"

"I guess. We need to keep an eye on it, though," I say firmly. I tell myself silently not to panic and call Carlisle, although the compulsion to do so is fierce.

"I suppose that puts the brakes on my plans tonight," Isabella says despondently, pulling Shortcake's sweater back down.

"What plans are those?" I ask, putting the thermometer back into its box. I look up when she doesn't answer straight away. "Isabella?"

She pushes her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. I can't help but smile at her endearing timidity.

"What is it?" I press.

"Okay," she starts quietly. "So, I was hoping you would let me babysit Shortcake at my place tonight."

Her question surprises the hell out of me; I'm not sure what to say. As is the way with Isabella, she takes my silence as my doubting her and continues to plead her case.

Forever the lawyer.

"I have some work to do, and I could do it at home while she sleeps," she states. "I know her room isn't finished yet, but I can take the bassinet and her bag of things, just like you do with your sister."

Her back straightens, and her hands appear from her pockets. She's on a roll. I suppress my smirk and allow her to continue.

"I know you'll worry, but I have all the numbers I need. Plus, I've been doing a fairly awesome job of looking after her while you've been at work these past couple of weeks. I think I've more than showed my capability, and," she gestures towards me with an open palm, "you clearly trust me."

I nod. She's right: I do. I wait for her to continue, but she doesn't. "You about done?"

Her eyes flicker away from me quickly, thinking carefully, before meeting my gaze head on, fearlessly. "Yes."

"Good. That's fine," I say. A small prickle of alarm creeps up my neck as I say it, but I know it's unwarranted and has nothing to do with Isabella. It comes only from a place that appeared the moment I learned I was a parent, the same place that has me willing to dive in front of a bullet for my little girl. As Alice calls it, my Papa-Bear place.

Isabella's mouth gapes slightly. "Really? I can take her?"

I chuckle. "Sure. I know she'll be safe with you no matter where she is."

She bites her lip. "That means a lot."

"It means a lot that you're willing to do it, Isabella," I counter. "Not only does it help me, but it's great that you're becoming so comfortable with her."

It's fantastic, actually. Whatever apprehension held her back so much before seems to have dissipated. I still see glimmers of it, but they are infrequent. I'm still intrigued as to where the trepidation came from in the first place, but I'm biding my time. I know she'll open up to me when she's ready. At least, I hope so.

Isabella looks at Shortcake and sighs. "I'm just happy I can be part of her life."

I smile gently. "Me too."

She glances back, eyes peering through her lashes, and the warmth in my stomach increases infinitesimally. She's undeniably sexy when she looks like this.

"What?" I ask, suddenly conscious. I run a hand through my hair, which brings a small grin to her lips.

"I, um . . . I have something else to ask you," she says quietly.

I shrug indifferently. "Hit me." She takes a couple of steps towards me, and I swallow.

"A friend of mine," she begins, "owns a large art gallery downtown. Every year he has a large charity event: an auction. It's a ball with dinner and whatnot in the building above." She waves her hand dismissively. "It's a little pretentious, but it's for a good cause."

She pauses.

"Okay," I encourage.

"It's being held the Tuesday before Christmas," she continues. "A little over two weeks from now. I thought . . . with you enjoying art the way I do, maybe you would like to go with me."

"Oh," I reply unimaginatively as she nervously clasps and unclasps her hands, waiting for my answer. I cross my arms over my chest, considering her words carefully.

"You don't have to," she adds quickly. "It was just an idea." She smiles, but it's uneasy and falls quickly.

"So," I say, elongating the vowel. "This is like . . . a date?"

I ask it as a question because, one, I know it will ruffle her, and I find no end of amusement in seeing her fluster. And, two, because I genuinely want to know. Watching her as my question echoes around the room, however, I'm not entirely sure what I want her answer to be. That fact alone should have me taking a step back. Literally and metaphorically. As it is, I stay where I am.

"No," she answers loudly. "No. I wouldn't assume you would—no. It's not. I mean, I have, you know, a boyfriend, and you're not—I mean, you're . . . and I'm . . . we don't have—what I mean is, dammit, it's not a date."

I smirk, and her eyes narrow. "So it's definitely _not_ a date."

She sighs, but I see mirth in the small-exasperated shake of her head. "No, Edward. It's not. It's just an invitation to go as friends. Take it or leave it."

"Friends," I echo, liking the sound of the words on my lips. I hum and rub my chin. "Will I have to wear a suit and tie?"

Her stare drops to my chest, and she clears her throat. "Yes."

"Will I have to laugh at all the jokes the snobby rich folk will be telling?"

She snorts. "Absolutely, but I'll protect you."

I don't doubt it.

"I won't be working that night." I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans and lift my shoulders. "Why not? Sounds like something I'd like. I haven't been to an art gallery in years."

Isabella's face lightens, and her mouth stretches into a wide, beaming smile. "Great. I'll RSVP."

She looks the happiest I've seen her since we met.

I'm glad it's not a date. Who knows what that would do to her demeanour.

=DitD=

I arrive at the club earlier than usual. I'd like to say it's because I love my work so much, but it's because I'm driving myself fucking insane. Since Isabella left with Shortcake almost three hours ago, I've more or less paced a hole in my apartment floor. It's stupid; it's unreasonable. It's not as if I haven't seen Isabella's place and know that Shortcake's safe. I know all of this.

But I can't seem to calm down.

I checked Shortcake's temperature again before they left, and it was the same. It hadn't increased any, but she was unsettled and didn't finish her bottle again. Her diaper wasn't very nice, either. To her credit, Isabella asked if I was sure it was okay for them to leave. Of course, I said yes. I can't allow myself to be a fucking maniac every time my daughter's not at my side. It'll come with time, Mama Esme keeps telling me. I sure hope so.

At least I have something to take my mind off it all. Tonight is Heaven and Hell night at the club. Of course, I'm a devil. I have the obligatory horns attached to my head, a red velvet cape, and small, shiny red hot pants. Throughout the night, I will change from this to an angel and back again, but now it's time for rock and roll.

As Aerosmith booms from the speakers for the opening number, me and the other boys dance in perfect unison. We flip, spin, weave, and grind. The women are loud and demanding, and I've made nearly a hundred dollars before the song ends. Notes are stuffed into my hot pants, making it look like I have a horrendous case of haemorrhoids. I say this to Pete, and he laughs louder than I've ever heard him.

Pete and Mike take to the stage for their R Kelly bump and grind section. Backstage, I pull my horns from my head, throwing them onto the dressing table and chug water. Tyler holds a bottle of tequila and gestures with it towards me. I shake my head, despite the craving I have for a harder drink. Tyler shrugs and takes a hit himself. He hisses and curses when he swallows, but I see the tension in his shoulders relax almost instantly.

That's how it is. We get shitfaced and high to help with the stage fright, the nerves, to cloak our inhibitions, or, in Tyler's case, to numb the embarrassment about taking his clothes off for a living. He's a newbie, paying his way through college—though I'm not sure he even goes anymore—and I appreciate his shame. I remember feeling it the first few times I ever went on stage at Eclipse.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn't ever_ want_ to be a stripper. I fell into it.

I was still torn by the death of my mother when my ballet days were cut short. Once my knee was healed enough, I danced with Jake and his pals in the park and at social events, but it wasn't the same thing. It wasn't enough. I missed the adrenaline rush and the excitement that was so prevalent when I performed on stage. Like the drugs I gradually started to use, I needed the stage. I craved it.

I met Emmett through a mutual drinking friend. He saw in me what I thought had been lost. He picked me up, dusted me off, and offered me a job. I was nineteen. I had women throwing themselves at me, offering me things I'd neither done, nor heard of, and I had more money than I ever imagined.

I was euphoric.

Mama, Alice, and Carlisle tried their best to talk me out of it. They told me I was better, I was worth more. Take up your art, they said. Take up your photography and go to college. Maybe even open a dance studio, Carlisle said. He even offered to contribute financially. I knew they were well intentioned, but I ignored them. I told them I was happy. I was back on the stage dancing, and I loved it. It just so happened I took my clothes off, too. A small detail, which mattered little to me.

Nonetheless, the first time I took my clothes off on stage, I was a mess. Half wasted from drinking my panic away, I took my clothes off as if I was in a fucking locker room. The women, however, didn't seem to notice. I was young meat, ripe and clean, and they loved my sexy innocence. That's what Emmett said, and that's how he sold me to them. Many of the women who saw me that first night are still regulars, and they pay well. I know them by their first names. I know what they like, I provide it, and they reward me handsomely.

Ten years down the line, it seems, not much has changed inside the Eclipse bubble.

Outside it, however, things have done a complete one-eighty.

I'm a father now. I'm a sober-for-a-week father. I'm a sober-for-a-week father, who misses his daughter and worries that she's feeling unwell. I check my phone, sending a quick text to Isabella, asking if Shortcake is alright. She is, she says. She's finally asleep. At least that's something.

Good, I reply. How's work going?

She is quick with her response: Tedious. Not as much fun as your night, I'm sure.

I smile at the winking emoticon she has added to the end of her text.

I'm sure, I type. Although, you at least get to keep your clothes on.

It takes me a fucking age to work out how to create the same winking smile before I send it.

My jaw hits the fucking floor when I read her reply: How do _you_ know?

_Jesus. _Who knew she had it in her?

I laugh. I am growing to love her sassy, uninhibited side. It still doesn't come out enough as far as I'm concerned.

My reply is simple: Tease.

She doesn't respond, but I didn't expect her to. I know she's mindful about bothering me when I'm at work, although, as the scent of pot wafts over to me, filling the room with its pungent aroma, I'm not sure she'd be quite so courteous. Not that I would blame her. My eyes wonder from my cell to Tyler, who's pulling back on a blunt, slumped on one of the sofas we have in the dressing room.

As nice as it smells, however, I don't want any.

I want to be with Shortcake. And, if I'm being honest with myself, Isabella.

I look at the clock. It's eleven. Three hours to go. I pull off my hot pants, caring little about being naked in front of Tyler, and pull on my white Grecian style costume. It's the closest to an angel outfit Emmett could get. I pull on my white thong and put more gel in my hair. It's crazy spiky tonight and glistens with oil. I ask Tyler to spray my chest and legs with glitter, which he does with the blunt hanging from his mouth. He offers it to me, and I shake my head.

"What's up with you?" he asks, sitting back with a lazy smirk on his face. "Are you becoming straight in your old age?"

I laugh and frown at him. "No," I answer, ignoring the jibe about my age. "I just want a clear head tonight."

He snorts. "You're different."

I watch him as he closes his eyes and smokes the rest of his joint. It strikes me somewhere deep in my chest, under the part of me that longs to be with my daughter, that he is right.

I_ am_ different.

With a frustrated sigh, I quickly shut down the questions that start to rise through my brain. I'll consider what my being different means for my job at Eclipse later. Right now, I have a dance to do and money to earn.

=DitD=

It's a little before one-thirty in the morning when I check my phone again.

When I do, my heart plummets to the soles of my feet.

Four missed calls.

Two texts from Isabella. The first asks me to call her as soon as I can.

Nausea ripples through me as I read the next one. She's taking Shortcake to the hospital.

There are two texts from Mama telling me that she's on the way to hospital to meet Isabella and two missed calls from Alice.

"Hey, Coda!" Emmet calls from the dressing room doorway. "I need to talk to you."

I ignore him with my finger in the air, telling him to wait a minute while I call Isabella. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I want to launch it at the wall. "Fuck!"

My mouth is sickeningly dry, and my pulse rocks through my temples.

"Coda," Emmett persists.

"Wait!" I snap back at him while I listen for Alice's voice. I almost collapse when I hear her. "Alice!"

"Calm down," she says before I can ask what the fuck's going on. "She's alright."

"Alright?" I bark. "Why is she in the hospital if she's alright?" I pull my sweat pants from my bag and yank them on quickly. Next is my t-shirt and sneakers, which I don't even tie. I've never dressed so quickly in my life.

"Her temperature spiked, and Isabella called Carlisle," Alice explains. "He suggested taking her to the hospital. Some infants have seizures if their temperature gets too high, too fast."

Her voice is calm. She talks to my nephews like this when they are scared about something. Ironically, her using it makes me even more scared. Christ. A seizure? I'm petrified. I grab my bag, my cell still glued to my ear as Alice tells me what floor Shortcake is on, and I barge past Emmett, not giving him as second glance.

"I have to go," I throw over my shoulder. "Shortcake's in the hospital. I've gotta go."

I hear him say something. Maybe ask me what the fuck's going on, but I couldn't care less. I'm out of the door and running across the car lot before he can finish.

I drive like a fucking lunatic across town, reaching Seattle General in record time. I sprint through the doors, ignoring the discomfort that twists in my stomach any time I enter a hospital. I throw myself up the stairwell, dodging people as I go, and arrive breathless and terrified at the desk of the paediatric unit. The woman behind it stares at me as I try to speak through heavy breaths.

"My daughter," I manage, placing my hands on the desk in an effort to stay upright. "Elizabeth Cullen. I was—I was called, told she's here. I'm her father. Edward. I'm Edward Cullen."

She nods; her eyes are cautious. I must look a sight with my makeup and sparkling, oiled-up skin. She turns to her computer. "I'll check on that for you."

"Thank you," I say with a gasp.

"Did you say Cullen?" she asks after a brief moment, keeping her gaze on the computer screen. I nod. "As in Dr. Carlisle Cullen?"

"Yes," I reply, standing straighter, regaining my breath. "He's my uncle."

"Yes, I have the notes here." She turns in her chair and waves to gain the attention of another nurse. "Hannah, can you take Mr. Cullen through to see Dr. Cullen. He's in bay three. He's expecting him."

I can't help but feel relieved and a lot thankful that being the family of one of the most respected doctors in the city gives me special privileges. I follow the nurse as she gets us through the security doors, only for my alarm to increase when I hear babies crying. The need to be with Shortcake nearly cripples me. She is so small. I should have been with her. I shouldn't have left her. I'm an idiot.

I halt in my silent, self-berating when we turn into a small bay. Carlisle, Mama, and Isabella are all there. Isabella stands from her seat next to a small crib when she sees me. She looks as bad as I feel, but I ignore all of them and rush across the room to see Shortcake asleep, wearing only a diaper, hooked up to an IV drip that disappears into the tiny crook of her elbow.

"What's this for?" I demand, feeling sick at the thought of someone putting needles into my daughter. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's alright," Carlisle says quietly, too doctor like. "She has a urinary tract infection."

"A UTI?" I ask, perplexed. I've heard Alice talking about such things before. "How? I mean, how did she get that?"

"It's common, Edward," he tells me, though there is no patronising in his voice. "And this," he continues, pointing to the IV, "is for her antibiotics. She's a little dehydrated. The fluids will fix that."

I stare at Shortcake and place my hand on her belly, needing to feel the lift and drop of her lungs under my palm. She's warm. "Does she still have a fever?"

Carlisle moves to my side and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It's come down a lot. The antibiotics will help. She's being checked regularly."

I nod. His words ease me minutely. I try to rub a hand through my gelled hair, and fail. I exhale, trying to calm my body down, as Carlisle explains how they will treat her and what to expect. I'm with her now, I silently remind myself over and over. I know she's okay despite the UTI. He tells me she'll need to stay in overnight, maybe a couple of days for the antibiotics to do their thing. I don't care as long as they make her better. They want to perform a scan on her to check her kidneys and bladder in the morning.

"It's all precautionary," Carlisle assures me when my face drops at the thought of something more serious. "Isabella told me her symptoms only started today. We've caught the infection early, which is very important with children as young as Elizabeth."

I glance over at Isabella to see her chewing the shit out of her thumbnail. Her wide, frightened eyes trained on Shortcake. She must be feeling like shit, too. Carlisle follows my gaze and, with a small smile, pats me on the back.

"Isabella was fantastic tonight, Edward. She did everything right." He walks back over to Mama and leads her out of the room, saying something about getting a coffee.

"Are you okay?" I ask Isabella quietly, dipping my chin to gain her attention.

Her eyes find mine slowly. She drops her thumb from her mouth and wraps her arms around herself. She shrugs. "I'm fine. I'm just glad you're here now." Her voice is small and tired.

"What happened?"

She takes a tentative step towards me. "She woke up about an hour after your text. Her cry was different. She wouldn't settle with her bottle or music. I changed her, but she just kept crying." The words break slightly. "I didn't know what to do. I called you a couple of times. I even tried the club, but there was no answer. So I called Alice. She told me to speak to Carlisle. I checked her temperature again as he asked, and it was so high."

She worries her lip. Her eyes glimmer with tears, and my hand instinctively lifts to find her forearm. I squeeze it gently.

"You did the right thing," I tell her. "I'd have done everything you did."

"Really?" She looks genuinely relieved.

"Sure," I answer. "Except I wouldn't have been as calm as you." I smile gently, and she returns it. I release her arm, and my hand drops to my side.

She rubs her palms down her face and sighs loudly. "I was so worried you wouldn't let me take her again."

I frown. "Nonsense. It wasn't your fault." I look back at Shortcake. "I feel guilty as hell that I left her when I knew she wasn't well. I shouldn't have left her. I should've known to stay with her."

Surely, if I was a decent father, I would have had a sixth sense or a feeling of foreboding in my gut. Isn't that what people say? Where's _my_ sixth sense? What's wrong with _my_ gut?

As if it happens in slow motion, Isabella's hand appears in my periphery. Unable to move, I watch it land gently on top of mine on the side of the crib.

"Don't be silly," she murmurs. Her thumb moves a little, stroking my knuckle. "You're a great father. You know this. These things happen."

I glance at her, but she's looking at our hands, seemingly as surprised as I am that she's touching me. I can't deny her touch is welcome. The familiar tingle sparks under my skin, and the overwhelming urge to move and touch her thumb with my pinkie fills me from head to toe.

I do it. Just a little. Just to tell her I appreciate her being with Shortcake. Being with me.

"I'm glad you were with her," I say. My voice sounds different as it struggles to leave my throat.

Isabella looks up at me. Her face is tired but beautiful, and, for one split second, I want to kiss her. The thought occurs so suddenly it makes my knees shake. Isabella's gaze flicks quickly to my mouth, but I wonder if I imagined it when something bleak and miserable appear in her large, brown eyes.

As slowly as she put it there, she removes her hand and takes a step back. I can't deny the disappointment that squeezes my chest when I realise, despite there being mere inches between us, they might as well be miles.

**Holy UST, Batman!**

**Slow burn, guys. You know you love it.**

**Talking of love, buckets of the stuff to Purelyamuse for being so wonderful.**

**For those of you still asking, the definition of the word Coda (in this context) is at the beginning of chapter 2.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	13. Chapter 12

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Twelve**

**If the words you say are right**

**If you pay the price**

**She'll let you deep inside**

**There's a secret garden she hides**

"So," Jasper begins in a tone that makes my skin prickle. "Alice tells me you have a date with Isabella tomorrow night."

I curse under my breath and stir my coffee a little harder than is needed.

"It's not a fucking date," I snap back, making him smirk. "It's a charity event. It's art. She asked me because I like both of those things. That's all there is to it."

I storm away from him, throwing myself down on the back of the truck bed, hoping to God that the coffee will thaw my freezing ass out. I don't mean to be curt, but I've had at least six of the same conversations with Mama and Alice over the last week, and to hear it now from Jasper is just too much. I don't know why they can't back off. I'm tired of their knowing looks, subtle comments, and hushed conversations whenever anyone mentions or sees Isabella.

It's bad enough that the two of us dance around each other, trying our damndest to ignore the huge fucking elephant that appears every time we're in a room together, which, given the situation, happens a lot. What the elephant is exactly, I don't know. All I know is that when I'm near her, I'm different. I become self-conscious and tongue-tied. My attraction to her doesn't help, of course, but it feels so much bigger than that. I see it in her eyes when she looks at me. It's as if we have so much to say to one another, but we can't or don't know where to start. All of the unsaid words simply fall into the huge void that appeared between us the night Shortcake became sick.

For three days and two nights, I stayed at my daughter's side at the hospital. In fairness, Emmett understood about my not being at the club. Maybe it was my don't-fuck-with-me tone I used when I called to tell him he would need to cover me.

The scan on Shortcake's kidneys and bladder came back fine, and the antibiotics cleared her infection up quickly. I was never so happy to have Shortcake back at home with me. I had her sleep in my bed for an entire week just in case she wasn't completely well.

When she wasn't at Isabella's, of course.

While Shortcake was in the hospital, Isabella was a lifesaver. When she wasn't at work, she was with me, watching over my daughter with equal anxiety and protection. She made trips back to my apartment, collecting clothes, and stayed with Shortcake while I showered. We were ships passing in the night, talking in small, fleeting snippets, though neither one of us mentioned her touching my hand. That was two weeks ago, and we still haven't spoken about it. Truthfully, I'm not sure I want to. I have no idea what I would say to her. I'm acting increasingly like a school kid with a fucking crush, and I hate it. It was a small gesture of support that, ordinarily, I wouldn't think twice about.

But I do think about it.

Frequently.

I want to know if she felt the tingle too. I want to know if she thought about kissing me when she looked at my mouth the way she did, and I want to know why she looked so desperately sad when she pulled her hand away from mine.

Despite the fuckery that is our relationship, I'm seeing Isabella's confidence with Shortcake grow more and more every day. I can't deny it; she's wonderful with my daughter. She laughs and plays with her—as much as one can with a seven-week-old baby—and it's a pleasure to see. She dresses her, feeds her, and changes her. And her face lights up the minute she arrives at my apartment to take her. Her arrival is fast becoming one of my favourite parts of the day.

Jasper joins me on the truck bed, with his own coffee held in his gloved hands. It's colder than a witch's tit, but work needs doing. The week before Christmas is always a difficult time for Jasper's construction company. He's understaffed at the site of an add-on build and begged me to work for a week. I usually only do part time, but he's family, and I know he needs me.

He nudges my shoulder. "I didn't mean to upset you."

I sigh and take a sip of my coffee. "I know."

In my periphery, I can see him fidget. He's desperate to say something, but I wait, sipping my hot drink, watching the cars go by at the end of the street. It's mere minutes before he cracks.

"You like her, don't you?"

I can't help but smile. I shake my head before turning to him. "You're as bad as your wife. You do realise?"

He snorts. "She taught me well."

He waits then. This is his way. He plants a seed and allows it to grow, fester, while sitting at my side as innocent as can be. I exhale with a groan of frustration.

"Yes," I reply. "I like her." I glance at him furtively, panicked, but his face gives nothing away.

"So what's the problem?"

"What?" I turn to face him.

He shrugs and looks to the ground. "You like her. She likes you. What's the problem?"

"Seriously?" Disbelieving, I cough. "What's the pro—well, she has a boyfriend for one thing."

Jasper stares at me. He blinks, silent.

"She's Leah's sister," I continue. "She can be a pain in the ass, and I barely know her." I count each problem on my fingers, but even as I say them, I know Jasper doesn't buy any of it.

Honestly, I'm not sure I do. I bite down on my tongue stud in irritation.

"Okay," he says matter-of-factly. "I get the boyfriend thing. But, surely, it should be up to Isabella. If she's happy with this guy, she'll tell you straight: back off. If not . . ." He trails off, leaving my mind racing.

"She's Shortcake's aunt," I mutter.

"So," Jasper retorts with a furrowed brow. "I'm sure there are hundreds of couples out there who started off being sister-in-laws and brother-in-laws, or whatever. Something bad happens like the loss of a partner, and there you have it." He pauses. "Thankfully your situation isn't that complicated, but you get my meaning. Besides, she's her stepsister. Stop over thinking it. Let it happen naturally. Your relationship could work. No biggie."

I stare at him, open-mouthed. "The fuck are you talking about?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, dude. Did the r-word offend you?"

I narrow my eyes. "Fuck off."

He laughs louder. He knows I'm being purposefully obtuse, and he's finding it hysterical. I understand what he's saying. I get it. I've thought about it, and, honestly, I'm not a relationship guy. I don't know how I would be, and the whole boyfriend thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. Sex, I can do. Charm, I can do. Relationships and intimacy—other than when I'm on stage—is entirely alien to me.

"So what do you want?" Jasper asks, undeterred by my tantrum.

I rub my eyes and let out a long sound of who-the-fuck-knows. "I'd like to have a normal, uncomplicated life again, thank you."

He smiles gently.

I slap my palms to my knees and lift my shoulders so they bunch tightly. "I don't know, man," I answer honestly. "I'm driving myself insane. I like her, I do. But I've liked lots of women. I've slept with women I've known for a shorter time than I've known Isabella."

I shake my head in frustration and guilt.

"Does it feel the same as all the others?" Jasper asks quietly.

"Yes," I answer quickly. "No. Fuck. I don't know. All I know is I like her a lot, but then I think, what the hell can I do about it? She's amazing with Shortcake, you know. She really is, and when it's the two of us, she's charming as hell."

"She's hot, too," Jasper mutters nonchalantly out of the corner of his mouth.

I release a breath of laughter and give him a wry smile. "Yeah, okay, I concur. She's hot." I point at him accusingly. "It's your damned fault I'm like this anyway. If you hadn't said what you did at Thanksgiving about her being hot and shit, I never would have thought about her this way."

He cocks an unconvinced eyebrow.

"Fine," I concede with my palms up. "Maybe that's not true."

We sit silently for a few moments. The snow is still falling, but, after the rain that fell through the night, it isn't sticking.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Jasper murmurs. "Things have changed." He fixes me with a determined stare. "You're not the same man you were when you made those choices, when you took those women home."

He's right. I know I'm different. I_ feel_ different. The night I found out about Shortcake something shifted in me. Something undeniably powerful. I have bigger, more important, more precious things to worry about than where my next lay is coming from. Not that that's what I want with Isabella. It's not. And, frankly, it scares the hell out of me.

When I finally speak, I'm unsurprised to hear my voice is small and weary.

"Weeks ago, I hated her," I mutter. "I despised everything about Isabella Swan, Attorney at Law."

My brother-in-law turns to me. "And now?"

I stare at the ground as a surge of realisation blooms in my chest. "I don't know what I'd do without her."

=DitD=

I don't mind wearing a suit.

In fact, I quite enjoy it. There's something irrefutably sexy about wearing tailored wool. The suit I own is fucking awesome. It's Dior and cost a small fortune. I've worn it, maybe, three times, but it was worth the money I spent on it. It's black. I wear it with a white shirt and a skinny black tie. My dress shoes shine so bright I can see my damned face in them.

I run my hands through my hair, trying to control its chaos. I fail miserably and grimace at the wayward spikes and curls I see in the mirror.

"Fuck it," I mutter, adjusting my tie.

I look good. In fact, I look fucking hot. Even with the steel in my ears, I'm almost respectable.

I spray myself with cologne and wander out of my bedroom into the living room to see Alice laughing at Shortcake who is sitting, propped up by cushions, on my sofa. The smile on my daughter's face is incredible. She's smiling at Alice, fisting her small hands, as her head wobbles unsteadily. It's the most beautiful silent laugh I have ever seen.

"What are you doing?" I ask Alice as I crouch down next to her, hypnotised by the look of sheer wonder on my daughter's face. Shortcake's eyes find mine, and the smile gets infinitely bigger.

I'm fairly positive I fall in love with her all over again at that very moment.

I smile back and put my finger in her hand. She holds it so tightly. My perfect, strong Shortcake.

"I'm blowing raspberries at her," Alice says, demonstrating with a loud, unladylike noise.

Shortcake's eyes narrow with laughter, and her mouth forms a perfect O. A small, soft cooing sound comes from deep in her throat. I blink.

"She made a noise," I blurt.

Alice snorts at my side. "Of course she did."

"I mean, like, a new noise," I reply. "Until now, all I've heard her do is cry, burp, and fart."

Alice chuckles at the side of me. She glances at me before doing a double take when she sees my suit. Her eyebrows rise to her hairline.

"Wow," she says with a wide mouth and a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Who are you trying to impress?"

I make a scoffing noise, ignoring her comment, and stand up, kissing my daughter on the head. I take a deep breath as I do, pulling her scent of powder and sweet almonds into my lungs. I miss her already.

Alice lifts Shortcake from the sofa and holds her close. I place my hand on my daughter's back. I sigh, feeling guilty. Last time I left her, she ended up in hospital. "Are you sure you don't mind looking after her?"

Alice rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding me? Between you and Isabella, I hardly get to see my niece anymore. Plus, the boys love having her over." She kisses Shortcake's temple and smiles. "It's nice to have another girl in the house."

I nod knowingly. "Another baby, you mean."

Alice smirks, looking towards the floor. "Maybe."

I laugh and walk over to the side table, picking up my keys and wallet. "I'm telling Jasper."

Alice shrugs. I look at my watch.

"What time is the car coming for you?" she asks, grabbing Shortcake's coat.

"Now," I answer. My stomach knots nervously, and my collar suddenly starts to feel a little tight.

"You look great," Alice says, reading my mind. "You'll have a great night. Everything will be great."

I push my hands into my pockets. "Great," I retort sarcastically.

"I'll text you later. Have fun. And we'll see you tomorrow."

I exhale and roll my shoulders. "Okay," I say resolutely.

I kiss my sister and my daughter goodbye and leave my apartment to go on my non-date with Isabella Swan.

=DitD=

The car pulls up to a large building that could, were it not for the huge windows, burly doormen, and red carpet, be mistaken for a warehouse. I step out, buttoning my jacket against the cold wind as I do. I walk towards the entrance, nodding politely at the doormen.

"Name?" the tall, weather worn goatee asks me.

"Edward Cullen," I answer looking past him to the glass doors where glamorous, ball gown and tuxedo wearing people drink champagne.

"Your name isn't here," Goatee informs me, pulling my attention from the goings-on inside. He chews his gum like a cow chewing cud and pins me with a stare that dares me to protest.

Isabella never gave me a name or an invitation to bring with me. I begin to open my mouth to tell the dude just that when I hear a familiar voice come from behind him.

"He's with me."

I look past Goatee. Isabella's walking towards us waving a rather official looking invitation. She hands it to the doorman with authority, telling him that I am a special guest of Caius', throwing me a small wink in the process.

It's at this point I realise I'm staring.

I'm staring, and I'm speechless.

Of their own accord, my eyes drift down Isabella's body from head to toe, drinking in every spectacular detail. And spectacular is right. She's a vision. Her hair is up, as it always is, but the parts that are down are softer than normal and elegantly tousled, framing her small face. The makeup she is wearing is minimal—despite it being more than I've ever seen her wear—simply accentuating the beauty that is already there. Her eyes look bigger, brighter, edged with thick, lush eyelashes. Her cheeks are blushed, and her lips are glossy and plump.

And her dress?

Fuck. Me.

It's black. It's floor length. It's strapless. And it clings to every single part of her. I think it's silk, but I'd have to touch it to be certain.

I want to touch it.

I want to touch _her_.

"Edward?"

I blink. Isabella's concerned eyes stares at me. I clear my throat and drag my brain from the gutter. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" She looks genuinely worried.

I smile and wave her off. "Sure."

"Well, let's get inside. I'm freezing."

I apologise and follow her in, unable to take my eyes from her ass which is smothered by a dress that is now both my favourite thing in the world and my worst nightmare. Its simplicity makes it outrageously sexy, and, in turn, Isabella. I follow her towards a table that holds a million glasses of champagne.

Yes, I think. Drink is an excellent suggestion.

She hands me a flute and smiles before knocking hers against mine. "Cheers."

I nod and take a long sip, keeping my gaze on her. The necklace she wears is diamante and sits perfectly in the dip of her collarbone, drawing my attention down to her chest, which, unsurprisingly, looks fantastic, too. It's the most skin I've ever seen of Isabella's, and I'm amazed at how soft and unblemished it appears.

"You look beautiful." The words are out of my mouth before I really register the need to say them.

Isabella blushes and runs a palm down the front of her dress. "Thank you." She looks me up and down, using her eyelashes to devastating effect, and swallows hard. "So do you."

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with her compliment, and push my free hand into my pocket.

We're silent then, staring at one another. The silence, however, isn't like the silences I have grown so used to with her. This silence is something else entirely. It's a silence, which makes my heart beat fast and turns my mouth dry. It's a silence, which is electric and hot and stirs something deep in my stomach. My body itches to do something, but I can't quite decipher what.

On the edge of a room filled with people I don't know, staring at the exquisite woman before me, I am simultaneously terrified and exultant.

I'm hard. I want to kiss her. I want to touch her. I want to fuck her.

"Would you like to look at the artwork?" Her voice trembles slightly, and I notice her eyes have become much darker.

With a mouth incapable of speech, I simply nod. She gestures for me to follow and leads me to a quieter part of the gallery. Dragging my stare from Isabella, I finally start to take in my surroundings. The place is gargantuan with whitewashed walls that complement the artwork, which adorns them. And, shit, once I start to take a closer look, I realise the artwork is unbelievable.

Isabella has brought me to a section of the gallery that houses the photography. Enormous black and white canvas prints of hands, faces, and other body parts litter the wall. The detail is magnificent, and, silently thankful of the distraction, I move closer to them.

"You like these?" Isabella asks after a moment.

I don't need to look at her to know she's smiling. I can hear it.

"They're brilliant," I reply. "Look at the light here," I point to one particular photograph, "The artist has a fantastic eye."

"I know," she answers, making me turn to her.

I laugh nervously when I see she's staring at me.

"Don't be embarrassed," she says softly. "Your passion is inspiring."

"I'm not sure about that." I stand at her side, still looking at the photographs, and sip my drink. "I like taking pictures," I confess. "I used to incorporate it a lot in my art."

"I remember," she replies. I know she's referring to the pictures she saw at Mama's house. "You should do it more often."

"I wish I could. I don't have a camera anymore." I haven't seen it since Emmett borrowed it to take some promo shots for the club.

"That's too bad," Isabella murmurs around the rim of her glass.

"Yeah." I stare at one particular shot of a hand on a breast. It's subtle in its sexual message. I like it. The one next to it shows hundreds of entwined hands. "I'd love to get some shots of Shortcake," I say. "I have tonnes on my cell, but I'd like to take some real pictures of her."

"I'd like a picture of the two of you together," Isabella replies. Before I can respond, she gestures with her glass towards the artwork. "You should get your work out there, Edward. You're just as talented as these artists."

I scoff and shake my head. "I think my art days are over. I don't get a chance anymore."

"You should make time," she retorts, seemingly annoyed by my excuse. "You've sold work before. If I knew you wouldn't freak out, I would have asked you to display some here tonight for Caius."

I narrow my eyes playfully at her. "Don't pretend like you know me," I chastise. "I wouldn't have freaked out."

She cocks an eyebrow.

"Much," I finish with a smirk.

She laughs and follows me as I wander towards the paintings on the opposite wall of the gallery. They are complex, angry pieces of work that, worryingly, I recognise in my own art. The colours are vibrant and passionate with heavy strokes, which demand to be noticed. Isabella walks a step behind me, stopping when I do. I can feel her eyes on me, leaving a trail of heat as they pass over parts of my body, and I like it. I like that she watches me. I like that she wants to watch me.

She stops in front of a large canvas named 'Need'. She cocks her head gently to the left as she takes it in. Her bottom lip disappears into her mouth, and her fingers twitch as if she wants to touch it.

I place my empty glass on an empty table. "It's a great piece," I say, standing behind Isabella, close enough that I can smell her perfume and see the light spattering of freckles on her shoulders. My index finger jerks, wanting to touch them. I wonder, briefly, what her skin tastes like.

"It is," she says with a long breath.

I move my head closer to her ear. "What do you see?" I whisper. I think she leans back towards me, but I can't be sure.

"Joy," she answers. Her voice is low. "The joy of desire. It's excitement and want. The first feelings of love, when you can barely contain it." She swallows. "The black isn't negative here," she lifts her arm and points to the curved black line of paint, which edges the left side of the canvas. "It's—it's how love should be. Obsession and yearning. The black is the pain of being apart from the one you need."

"Isn't that negative?" I ask, though how I manage it through the deep breaths I have suddenly begun to take, I don't know.

"No," she answers. She turns to me slowly, and I am staggered to see her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "The pain of not being with them let's you know you're alive."

I frown gently, concerned. "Isabella?"

I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine.

"Edward—"

"Isabella! Darling!"

The loud, rather high-pitched voice hits us both like a freight train, and Isabella snatches her hand from mine so quickly I doubt it was there to begin with. A wide smile appears across her face when she looks around me to where the voice came from. I follow her gaze. A tall, blonde man, wearing more makeup than Isabella is almost skipping towards us with his hands waving and shaking in front of him. He manoeuvres around me and pulls Isabella into a huge hug, kissing each cheek twice.

"Caius," she says brightly. "How are you?"

"Oh, darling," he replies with all the drama of a Broadway show. "I swear I've aged ten years in the past month." He places a hand on his chest and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm stressed. I say it every year that I'm not going to do it. But here I am, doing it."

"The place looks fantastic," Isabella placates with a small laugh. "It's wonderful."

"Yes." Caius' eyes suddenly land on me, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a way that makes me feel a little uncomfortable, as if I'm being sized up for . . . something. "And talking of wonderful," he purrs. "Who is this?"

Isabella rolls her eyes playfully. "Caius, this is Edward Cullen. Edward, this is Caius. He organises this event every year."

I hold my hand out, and Caius takes it. "Nice to meet you," I tell him.

"The pleasure is all mine," he answers with a lick of his lips.

My face begins to burn under his scrutiny.

"Where's Marcus?" Caius asks Isabella with a raised eyebrow and a pout.

Isabella fidgets uncomfortably. Her eyes flick quickly to mine before she answers. "He's still in London. He'll be over this weekend."

Caius sighs. He keeps his stare on me while he speaks to Isabella. "If I were you, honey, I'd tell him to stay where he is."

I can't help but smile when Caius winks at me. Isabella catches my expression and laughs into her hand. She's clearly embarrassed, but the pink hue that washes over her cheeks is lovely.

"Caius," she admonishes. "Behave yourself."

He waves her off. "Never. Make sure you bid." He kisses her cheek again, and, in a whirl of aftershave, blonde hair, and waving hands, he flounces across the gallery to another unsuspecting group of people.

I push my hands into my pockets and shake my head. "Wow."

"I'm sorry," Isabella says with a small chuckle. "He's terrible."

"He's . . . different." I smile, watching her friend work his way seamlessly and flamboyantly from one person to the next. "How do you know him?"

"College."

My head snaps to her. "He's a lawyer?"

She laughs and takes another flute of champagne from a passing waiter. She hands it to me. I notice she doesn't take one for herself. "He's an incredible lawyer," she tells me. "But he only did it to please his father who, incidentally, has more money than God."

I nod, impressed. "No shit."

"He loves art," she continues. "That's where his heart truly lies. He has four galleries now. Those photographs you liked. Those were his."

"He's great."

"Yeah." Isabella sips her drink and wraps one arm across herself. "He does so much for the AIDS foundation. He's really wonderful."

I glance at her then, catching her watching me. Her eyes are clearer than they were before Caius interrupted us, but the brightness I saw in them when I first arrived is still to reappear. I take a step towards her.

"Hey." I gesture towards the painting that seemed to affect her so much. "Are you okay?"

She nods. "I'm fine." Her gaze wanders across my face searchingly. After a moment, she exhales, relieved, as though she's found whatever it is she's looking for. "I'm so glad you came."

I smile and tap my glass gently against hers. "Me too."

=DitD=

After we have circled the gallery a couple of times, we are taken up to the next floor where at least thirty large, round tables, draped in white and decorated with shining silverware and white lilies, wait for us. Like the gentleman I am, I pull Isabella's chair out for her and sit myself at her side.

I pull my napkin from the table as a bowl of soup appears in front of me. "I'm starved," I confess, aware that I should wait for the other eleven people on my table to receive their soup before I begin. I tap my spoon against the table gently.

Isabella smiles knowingly. "Start," she whispers. "It's fine."

The soup is great, as is the lamb that follows. The dessert, however, is in a league of its own. The Crème Brûlée is perfectly sweet and melts in my mouth, ending a meal that was well worth the one hundred dollar donation I paid for it. Even though Isabella makes idle chit chat during the meal, she is still completely enchanting. She makes me laugh, and she listens intently when I speak about, well, anything. She asks about Shortcake and goes utterly gooey when I tell her about my daughter laughing. I talk about my mom, which I seldom do, while Isabella cups her chin in her hand, taking in every word.

Despite my chattering about myself, I ache to ask questions about her family, her life, but something holds me back. I want to know everything. I want to know about what gives her the drive and passion she has. I want to know what it is that fills her with the sadness I see when she thinks I'm not looking. I want to know if Marcus makes her feel all of the things she saw in that painting, and, if not, why not.

I hope she'll tell me in her own time. I want her to trust me.

I stop mid-sentence and finger the stem of my champagne glass. I look at her and exhale.

She smiles. "What?"

I shrug. "You're quiet."

She laughs. "It's hard to get a word in." She touches my forearm when I cringe with embarrassment. "I like hearing you talk. You have a calming voice."

My face creases with puzzlement. "Calming?"

She pushes her hair back, avoiding my gaze. "Yeah. It soothes me."

"That's nice and all," I retort. "But I'd like to know more about you."

She takes a large gulp of her drink, finally finishing it. "There's nothing to tell."

I make a disbelieving sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff. "Bullshit."

She eyes me warily. "Honestly. It's all very boring."

"Boring? Really?" I smile in an attempt to relax her, but I know it's fruitless. I move closer to her. "Come on. Tell me something about yourself. Anything. Tell me what you were like as a kid. What you were like at school? Tell me about your family, your paren—"

"Edward," she says, almost pleading. "Don't."

I watch her fidget and worry her lip, which I'm starting to recognize as a sign of her discomfort and anxiety. I know I've pushed as far as I can tonight, but I can't deny that it's frustrating as hell. I scratch my thumb across my forehead, defeated.

"Fine." I huff and finish my drink, moving back into my seat, away from her.

She leans towards me. "I'm not trying to be difficult," she murmurs. "Really, I'm not."

I stay silent, keeping my eyes on the white linen tablecloth. I'm pissed off. A part of me can't understand why, but a bigger part is hurt and annoyed.

"Look at me." Her voice is soft, apologetic.

Unable to refuse, my eyes slide over to her. Lines of concern etch her face, but she's still beautiful.

"Can we please enjoy the rest of this night?" She places her hand on mine, and the tingling begins in earnest. "I've loved every second."

The side of my mouth curves upwards at her words. My thumb whispers over her knuckle. "Sure."

A loud banging emanates from the corner of the room where a large balding man holding a wooden hammer stands behind a lectern.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, sounding a lot like a circus ringmaster. "I'm sorry to draw your attention from the wonderful food and delicious champagne, but time is marching on. We are about to begin the auction."

Rapturous applause fills the room before he starts waxing lyrical about Caius' hard work and his continuing support of the AIDS foundation. Presented to him is a plaque, commemorating seven years of tireless charity work. He accepts it graciously, while Isabella claps and whoops louder than anyone else. His speech is surprisingly modest and swift.

The auction is fascinating. Nothing goes for less than two hundred dollars. Caius' work sells quickly. I bid three hundred on the photograph of hands but lose out when it sells for four. Trying to outbid other people is exhilarating. I've never done it before, but I find I love it. Isabella laughs at my eager competitiveness.

By the end of the auction, the artwork has raised over twelve thousand dollars. The room pulses with excitement and more champagne is poured. A band strikes up, and the dance floor starts to fill.

I tap my feet and slap my hands on my knees to the beat of Stevie Wonder's Superstition and watch with amusement as the guys on the dance floor play air guitar in an effort to impress the women around them.

"You should get up there," Isabella teases as we watch one particular man rock out with gusto. "Show them how it's done."

I shake my head and grin. "Nah. I wouldn't want to embarrass them."

She laughs. "You're so modest."

"What?" I ask in mock hurt. "You've never seen me dance, so how do you know?"

Her cheeks redden, and her attention is suddenly on her lap.

"I mean it," I continue, tormenting her further. "You should come to the club. See what it's like."

She smirks and bites her lip. "I don't think so."

"Why?" I ask, scooting to the edge of my seat, moving closer to her. "You afraid you'll like it?"

She speaks so quietly, I almost don't hear her. I watch her mouth as it forms the words: "I _know_ I'll like it."

Her stare pins me to my seat. I can't move. I lick my lips and swallow. The ache in my dick starts again, and I silently berate myself for being so fucking predictable.

The familiar opening bars of Secret Garden fill the room. Ordinarily, I would bitch and grumble about how no one should _ever_ touch the Boss, but I can't find it in myself to care. I hold my hand out to Isabella.

"Dance with me."

I don't ask, and she doesn't hesitate.

She takes my hand, and we stand together. I lead her to the dance floor, and, for one brief moment, I forget what I'm supposed to do. Regaining myself, I place my hand on her waist and pull her closer, while clutching her small hand tightly in mine. The fingers of her right hand hold my shoulder, and her eyes never leave my face.

They search. They darken. They burn.

I try to move, to dance. I struggle.

_She'll let you into the parts of herself_

_That'll bring you down_

_She'll let you in her heart_

For a split second, looking down at her, I'm weightless. Isabella's hold on me is the only thing keeping my feet on the floor. She moves her hand gradually from my shoulder to my neck and lightly fingers the ends of my hair. Shivers of goose flesh erupt across my body, and my chest constricts. It's as though I've climbed the peak of a rollercoaster. I'm at that moment where you hold your breath and cling on for dear life before you begin to plummet back to Earth. I know I'm squeezing her waist, but she doesn't complain. In fact, she moves closer to me. There is nothing between us now. Her body presses tightly to mine, moulding perfectly.

With her so close, I realise how small she is. How fragile and soft she is against me. I lessen my grip and move my hand around her waist, resting it on the small of her back, where her spine curves deliciously to her ass. I wait for her to tell me not to, to move it away.

But she doesn't.

We barely move to the music. We sway a little, staring at one another. Her fingers touch the skin of my neck. It's so gentle, so sensual; I have to fight back the growl, which bubbles at the back of my throat.

Moving our hands towards her face, I push a piece of hair behind her ear before resting my finger lightly against her cheek. Isabella's eyes close momentarily, and the spell that seems to have captured me breaks, allowing me to speak.

"What is this?" I ask quietly as she leans into my touch.

"I don't know," she replies, and I can't help but be relieved.

She's as lost and confused as I am.

My lungs start to work overtime when she moves her head and rests it under my chin. It's a gesture so intimate, so alien to me that I can barely comprehend it. The scent from her hair, however, is magic. It's sweet, but not overly so. It captivates me as it enters my nose and rests deep and warm inside.

I lean my cheek against her head and try to regain some sense of what the hell is happening. The deep heat I have come to experience in my stomach when Isabella is around, blooms wider, fiercer into something I can neither describe nor name. It ripples through me, leaving me speechless, terrified, but somehow desperate for more. My knees don't feel wholly stable, and my heart has never beaten so fast. I wonder if she can hear it through my jacket and shirt.

I listen to the words of the song, and the sensation of having Isabella so close. I allow myself to drift along on whatever it is occurring between us. It's contentment and bliss, I think, and I secretly want it to continue forever. But it doesn't because the song ends, and a new one, faster than this, begins. The wave of disappointment I feel is undeniable

Isabella lifts her head, as if waking from sleep and looks up at me with heavy, desiring eyes. Her voice is thick. "Can we go?"

"Where?"

"My place."

There is no inflection, no underlying message to her words, but my body doesn't care. It reacts as I expect it to: immediately hard and wanting. I nod, mute, and, before I can register it, we're walking hand-in-hand down the stairs of the gallery towards the exit. Once Isabella gets her coat from the cloakroom, the goatee door attendant waves us down a cab, and we bundle ourselves into it. Isabella gives the driver her address, then turns to me.

I'm still astounded and altogether bewildered by what is happening. I'm running to keep up, but I like it. I want it. My body fizzes with adrenaline and anticipation. I look down to the seat between us to see our hands still clasped together.

Isabella scoots closer to me and lifts them. Slowly. Oh, so fucking slowly, she puts my hand to her mouth and kisses my knuckle. Then the next one. Then the next one. Her lips purse in a way that makes my body flinch and twitch with need. They're soft, wet, and gentle, and affect my body like a match to kerosene.

"Christ," I mutter.

Her gaze finds mine, all chocolate and thick lashes, and I am once again lost.

"Come here," I whisper, and she does. Her compliance makes me powerful, heady.

I cup her face in my hand, tracing the apple of her cheek with my thumb and gently draw her towards me.

"If this isn't what you want," I say, searching her face for doubt, "you need to tell me now."

Like Jasper said, I need to make sure she is complicit in . . . whatever this is. She has more to lose than I do.

Silently, she wraps her fingers around my wrist and shifts infinitely closer. "I want."

I don't know who moves first.

All I know is Isabella's lips are suddenly pressing against mine while my heart thunders in my chest. When my brain finally catches up with my body, I release a breath, sighing into her, closing my eyes so I can revel in the feel of her mouth. We stay, glued together for mere seconds, before I part my lips tentatively, asking to deepen, to have more. Isabella responds by flicking the tip of her tongue against mine, and I grunt loudly.

I lose it.

I grab the back of her head and kiss her with everything I have. Our tongues meet hard, flicking, rubbing, swirling, tasting, and exploring. I have the overwhelming need to get closer, to consume her, and allow her to do the same to me. My arm snakes into her coat and wraps around her body, pulling her nearer. My hand skims across the silk of her dress, across the curves and dips of her waist. She feels phenomenal. Her hands fist in my jacket, gripping tightly, and her leg hitches over my thigh. She moans softly when my hand grabs the back of her knee and pulls it up further.

I'm so fucking hard. Painfully so.

I pant into her mouth and growl when my hand wanders slowly up the back of her thigh, feeling her soft suppleness. She pushes her hips into me, telling me she feels the heat, too. She wants me just as much, and that knowledge makes me kiss her harder. I want to touch higher, my hand wants to see just how much her body wants mine, my fingers ache for it, but part of my brain remembers that we are in a cab, and we're giving the driver one hell of a show.

I smile against Isabella's eager mouth, and she slows. "What?" She's breathless, gorgeous, and flushed.

"Maybe we should wait until we're inside," I say, glancing at the driver.

She smirks and flushes brighter. "Good idea."

She shifts back, adjusting her coat and dress, and touches her lips and hair.

"You look perfect, Ballerina Bella," I tell her, pulling her hand to my mouth and kissing it just as she did mine.

She stares at me, wide-eyed. I chuckle. "What did I say?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. It's silly."

"Tell me," I press.

"It's just . . . my mom used to call me Bella. That's all."

My smile drops quickly. "Shit. Sorry."

"No," she insists, moving her mouth back to mine. "I like it. I like you saying it."

Minutes later, the cab pulls to the front of Isabella's building. I throw a twenty at him, and, with Isabella's hand back in mine, we hurry to the door and into the lobby. We're laughing as we throw ourselves into the elevator. I'm light and giddy. It's unexpected, but I relish it. I've never felt this way before. I'm high. I'm a kid again. The woman at my side is stunning. She's reckless and sexy. She's blown my mind. The Isabella Swan of weeks ago is a distant memory, and I couldn't be happier.

The doors are only part way closed when Isabella pushes me against the wall of the elevator and kisses me in a way that makes my head spin. Many women have kissed me, but none of them has shown the hunger that Isabella does. She pulls me. She pushes me. She's heat and need. My hands find her ass, and I squeeze and tilt my hips. She moans. I know she can feel my cock.

I want her to feel it. I want her to know what she does to me. I want her, and I'm not ashamed of it.

A bell rings, telling us that we have arrived at her floor. We freeze, mouths still connected, breathing each other in. Gradually, Isabella pulls back. She fixes her hair and smirks when her eyes travel down to my crotch.

"I don't know what you're smiling about," I murmur, liking her hungry stare on me. "This is all your fault." I wave my hands towards my dick, and she giggles into her palm. I smile and run my fingers through my hair in an effort to calm down.

"Well," she purrs, pulling her door key from her purse, "we'd better do something about it."

I watch her, open mouthed, as she sashays out of the elevator, and drop my head back against the wall with a loud thump. How the fuck does she manage to change so quickly? She's cute and girly one moment and sassy and wanton the next.

I rub my face with my palms as a culmination of longing, guilt, and panic starts to radiate through me. My conscience starts wrestling with my libido, throwing question after question at me, demanding answers. I push my fingertips to my temples in an effort to silence them. But they persist.

What am I doing? What are _we_ doing? What will this mean for us? I'm not stupid enough to realise that everything will change once we sleep together. If that's what's going to happen here. How will we move forward? Will she want more? Do_ I_ want more? What about the most important person in all of this? Shortcake. The most important, precious person in my life. She's all that matters. She deserves better.

I close my eyes. I hold my breath. Gradually, like a whisper on the wind, I hear Jasper's voice from yesterday: stop over thinking it, Edward. Let it happen naturally.

I exhale, mentally exhausted. "Jesus."

I take a couple of calming breaths and straighten up, putting my hand out to stop the elevator door from closing. I stride out into the hallway and all but run into the back of Isabella.

"Hey," I chuckle, taken by surprise. "What are you doing?"

I move to her side so I can see her face better when she doesn't reply. What I see sends a shiver of panic through my entire body. She looks thoroughly terrified. I follow her gaze down to the far end of the hall to her apartment where I see a tall, dark haired man standing at her door. He's watching us carefully with a sombre expression.

"Who is that?" I ask, but I know the answer before she gives it to me.

"It's Marcus."

**Holy here he is, but I don't care because that kiss was ossim, Batman!**

**Prepare for fireworks!**

**Sorry for the late update, but FF net was being a stubborn bitch over the weekend.**

**Huge snogs and hugs to Purelyamuse for being my grammar warrior princess. You rule.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	14. Chapter 13

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**You better get back to your use-to-be**

**'Cause your kind of love ain't good to me**

**I hear you knocking**

**But you can't come in**

"_Who is that?" I ask, but I know the answer before she gives it to me._

"_It's Marcus."_

I'm still, statue-like. I don't speak. I'm useless, with no idea what I should do. I wait for Bella to move, to say something, but she's as silent and unmoving as I am. My hand itches to touch her, to make sure she's okay, to reassure her, but I know I can't.

I can't because Marcus is watching us intently.

His stare is unnerving, but it could be the guilt making me so uncomfortable. At least, I think it's guilt. What else would it be? I just kissed and touched this guy's girlfriend. I got hard for her and made it clear what I wanted. I should feel guilty.

I _should_.

At my side, Bella slowly places a palm to her chest and starts to shift forwards, towards Marcus. As relieved as I am that she's finally moving, I can't deny the twinge of disappointment that occurs with every step she takes away from me. I swallow it down as much as I can, but it rests between my ribs like a dead weight.

She gets faster as she approaches him. I push my hands in my pockets when, little by little, she wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him. Marcus' hands hesitate slightly, staying at his sides, before they slide around her waist—just as mine did—and he buries his face in her neck. He mumbles something against her skin—the skin I know smells of freesia and Christmas mornings—and closes his eyes.

I shuffle from one foot to the other, wanting, needing to get the fuck out of dodge. My stomach is suddenly churning while my face starts to heat. With a fidgeting hand in my hair, I turn from them and head back towards the elevator.

Bella's voice stops me halfway down the hallway. "Edward?"

"Fuck." I close my eyes before I turn back, trying to look entirely indifferent, despite the overwhelming desire I have to smash some shit up. "Yeah?"

Bella's expression staggers me. The pinched mouth, the fake smile, the untrusting, defensive eyes are all back. Her spine is straight, her shoulders bunched with tension. I sigh. My heart gives a weak thump of frustration and regret. Isabella Swan: Attorney at Law is officially back in business.

"This is Marcus," she says with a small wave of her hand. Her phony smile widens, and her eyes ache with something dark and hurting. "Marcus, this is Edward. He was just . . . walking me to my door."

My fists clench at my sides as a wave of anger sweeps through me when I hear my name on her lips with a lie. I take a deep breath and nod my head in Marcus' direction. His face remains serious, calculating. I freeze in place when he starts to walk towards me. Just as I think he's going to beat the living shit out of me with his pretentious leather bag, he stretches out his hand and smiles.

I stare at him, wondering what the punch line is. It never comes. He stays quiet, waiting. I slowly, cautiously lift my hand, noting that the smile on his face is entirely disingenuous. I've seen it before on guys who pick their women up from the club. It snarls with possessiveness and back-the-fuck-off.

His fingers wrap around my hand, and he squeezes.

It's a warning.

Fuck that.

It's a challenge.

I squeeze it back, unfazed, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Game. On.

"I've heard a lot about you," Marcus says, pulling his hand from my grasp. Discreetly, he stretches his fingers, loosening the bones.

"Have you?" I smirk and scratch my temple. "That's weird because I haven't heard much about you."

Marcus' eyes flicker to Bella, whose eyes are on me. Her smile falters, and she lets out a soft uncomfortable laugh. She grips her bag in her hands tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

She's pissed. I don't care.

She's uncomfortable. I don't care.

She's beautiful. I . . . I . . . don't—

"So you're a stripper." The tone in Marcus' voice is condescending and amused, but I don't give a shit. I've heard it all before, and he can kiss my ass.

"Yeah." I smile and shrug my shoulders casually. "I am."

Marcus chuckles and snakes his hand around Bella's waist. He kisses her temple and hums. Christ, the fucker could piss on her leg and make less of a point. "Well," he murmurs, nuzzling Bella's cheek. "That's, um . . . great."

Bella's gaze pierces into mine. Part of me wants to pull her away from him, to wrap her in my arms as I did in the cab. The other part wants to walk away, to forget what happened tonight, and move on. I do neither. I simply stare back at her. I hope my eyes tell her what my mouth can't: I'm torn. I'm angry. I'm desperate to feel your lips on mine again.

But she doesn't respond in any way. Her brown eyes drop slowly from mine, and she turns her head to Marcus.

"You must be tired after your flight," she says. Her voice belies her calm exterior. She's tense, awkward, and anxious. "How about we go in and you can relax?"

Marcus grins. "I'm not _that_ tired," he replies. The insinuation in his words and tone makes my teeth grind. The muscle in my jaw flexes and twitches, while my stare burns into the side of Bella's face.

I exhale and turn on my heel. I've had my fill of them both. I want to go home. "I'm out of here."

Striding down the hallway and rounding the corner to the elevator, I'm shocked as hell when Bella's small hand grabs my elbow. Stopping, I look down at her and cock an eyebrow in question. I want to be angry, but her face is back to the way I know, to the way I like. Her eyes are warm but sad, and her lip has disappeared into her mouth.

"Edward," she whispers. Her voice catches. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" I ask.

Apparently, I'm an asshole. Truthfully, I don't want her to see how affected I am to see her with Marcus. It's ridiculous. I knew she had a boyfriend when I kissed her, when I decided I wanted her, but still . . . I'm affected.

"I didn't know he was going to be here," she murmurs. "I really didn't. He wasn't due until this weekend."

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with this piece of information. Is she sorry because she couldn't have her way with me without being interrupted? Or is she sorry she almost got caught?

Must be a bitch getting cockblocked by your own boyfriend.

My face must say what I'm thinking because her hand drops as if she's touched an open flame.

"It's fine," I retort. The words taste like vinegar on my tongue because they're not true. It isn't fine. _I'm_ not fine. I press the elevator button. "I need to get home anyway. I need to see my daughter."

I turn from her. I see her reflection in the metal of the door. She looks torn and hurt. She looks like how my heart is feeling.

"Edward."

I turn back to her as I step into the elevator. She tries to smile, but she fails. Her expression is apologetic. I stare at her. I let my eyes take another hungry look at her in that dress, and I move back, gripping the silver bar behind me. I don't want her to see how much I'd like to feel her again.

She sighs, and her shoulders drop just as the doors begin to close. "Thank you for the dance."

=DitD=

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at Alice's house. I throw cash at the cab driver to keep the meter running and get out just as my sister opens her front door. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the soft light behind her, I see she's in pyjamas, arms crossed over her chest. Her face isn't angry, though, in spite of it being close to midnight. She looks concerned.

I make my way to her, hands pushed in my pockets, head down. I'm tired, and I need to see Shortcake. I know that the smell of my daughter and the feel of her in my arms is all that'll keep me sane right now. The sensation of having no control is slowly creeping upon me, and I need to ground myself. Shortcake always does that.

Once on my sister's porch, I look at her. She smiles sadly. Her eyes say I can tell her anything, but I'm not ready yet. "Not now," I mutter.

She opens her mouth to speak but says nothing.

"Can I get her?" I ask quietly.

She nods and moves out of the way. "Of course."

Shortcake is fast asleep in her bassinet. My heart gives a resounding thump when I see her. Her lips smack softly as she suckles on an invisible pacifier, and her hands fist at the sides of her head. Her hair has grown so much. Gently, I place my hand on her belly—needing the familiar rise and fall under my palm—and close my eyes.

Behind my eyelids, I see Bella.

I can't deny the odd feeling of sadness that's begun to fester inside me. As much as it takes me by surprise, I know where it comes from, but I'm unwilling to dissect it. If I dissect it, it means I give a shit about it. And I don't want to give a shit about it. I don't want to give a shit about _her_. But I do, and it scares me to death.

I open my eyes and lift Shortcake. She's fantastically warm. She squeaks and murmurs against my neck as I pick up her bag and turn to Alice.

"I'll speak to you tomorrow," I tell her and make my way back out to the cab, wrapping Shortcake up tightly in my dinner jacket and her blanket.

When we get back to my apartment, I head straight to my bedroom. After turning my lamp on, I place Shortcake on her belly on the side of the bed I never use, and shrug out of my clothes. I leave them as a puddle of fabric and shoes on the floor. I'll deal with that tomorrow, too. Making sure I don't disturb her, I pull back my covers and slip under them. I move closer to my daughter so I can feel her breath on my face. The sweet smell of almonds washes over my, replacing the scent of Bella that still clings to my lips, and I immediately start to calm. My brain starts to slow. It's been a hell of a night.

=DitD=

"So, sweet girl, are we going with black and silver or red and silver this year?"

Shortcake sits on my sofa surrounded by cushions. I hold two baubles up in front of her, willing an answer to come from her lips. She's too young to speak, I know, but I can't help but be curious about what her first word will be. If I have anything to do with it, it will be Daddy. Instead of replying, she makes her usual cooing sound and cracks a smile with the left side of her mouth. I look at the red bauble in my right hand.

"Red it is. Nice choice."

I turn back to the epic Christmas tree in the corner of my living room and place the red bauble on a branch. Along with the white lights and silver tinsel already on it, it looks good. My phone vibrates in my pocket for the third time today. I sigh and place my box of baubles on the table. I know whom the text is from; she's been texting me all morning. Bella.

Edward, can I come over. B.

I reply quickly. I've ignored the other two that she sent asking if Shortcake and I were all right.

No. Not convenient.

I think we should talk.

It's fine. We're good.

I would rather see you in person.

Like I said, not a good time.

I shove my phone back in my pocket, wondering whether I should turn the fucking thing off, when there is a knock on my door. I grumble some more and make my way to it. I smile when I look through the spy hole.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to avoid this conversation for long," I say as I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.

"It _is_ tomorrow," Alice replies as she strides past me with James hot on her heels.

He runs full pelt into my legs. "Uncle E'ward, Santa come yet?"

I grin and ruffle his hair. "Not yet, buddy. Soon."

"And only if you're good," Alice adds as she crouches in front of Shortcake and beams.

I close my apartment door and lead James into the kitchen where I get him some juice and a cookie. Alice helps herself to a coffee and sits with me at my breakfast bar. We watch as James shows Shortcake his Thor action figure.

"So," Alice says. "Spill."

I exhale and make a guttural noise that tells her I really don't want to.

"Come on, Coda. What gives?" she persists, turning to face me. "What did you do?" She narrows her eyes. "Did you sleep with her?"

"No," I snap. "I didn't _do_ anything, but thanks for the vote of confidence. I really appreciate it."

I sip my drink and shake my head. I'm not surprised Alice would think that about me. My track record suggests I'd use Bella and throw her by the wayside. I've done it so many times before. The realisation of that stings. I'm not proud. I'm disgusted. I'm the kind of man I would tear limb from limb if he went anywhere near my daughter.

My sister touches my forearm with the tips of her fingers. "Sorry," she mumbles. "That was unfair."

I drop my head to my chest. "No. You're right."

She sighs. "I'm worried about you. I've never seen you like this, like last night."

I look at her then, and I see how worried she is. Her brows pull tightly together, and her eyes plead with me to tell her I'm okay, but I can't because I'm not. I don't feel okay. I feel confused and angry.

"I didn't sleep with her," I start. I take a deep breath. "But we did kiss." I pause, waiting for the shouts, the disbelief, and the what-the-hell-are-you-playing-at lecture. But it never comes. Alice simply looks at me, unsurprised and patient.

I cough a humourless laugh. "You knew."

"No," she replies. "But I guessed as much. It was bound to happen."

My eyes snap to hers, but I don't argue. She's right. It _was_ on the cards. I can't deny I've been attracted to Bella for some time now. I just never expected her to reciprocate, especially in light of the fact that she has a boyfriend. I explain to my sister the details of the evening: the dance, the cab ride, the heated kiss and the expectation of more. She nods and finishes her coffee, occasionally watching James as he chatters to Shortcake about what he's asked Santa to bring him.

My phone beeps and vibrates again. Alice stares at me knowingly. "That her?"

I nod and pull my cell from my pocket. I read it and put it on the table. My sister reads it, too.

I'd like a chance to explain. Please.

"What does she want to explain?" Alice asks, frowning.

"Beats me," I say, suddenly in need of a stiff drink. "I think she's worried I'll tell her boyfriend she practically dry humped me in the back of a cab."

James looks over at us. "What's dry humped?"

I snort and narrowly miss a slap from Alice as I move to get another drink. "Nothing, sweetie," she says. She stands abruptly, following me across the kitchen. "Do you think she'll tell him?"

I lean against the fridge and shake my head. "No. I don't."

"You're sure?"

I don't know why, but I am. I know Bella won't tell Marcus what happened. That's not her. I'm more inclined to believe that she'll pretend it never happened. I'd like to say I feel the same; that I'd like to sweep in under the proverbial rug and forget it, but it would be a lie.

"I don't know, Alice," I say honestly. "Bella is a law unto herself."

Alice stares at me and smirks. "Bella, huh?"

I roll my neck and groan. "Shut up." I push off from the fridge and hurry over to James. I grab him, tickling his sides, making him squeal. "Wanna help me finish decorating the tree, man?"

"Yes!" he cries. "Can I put the fairy on top?"

I scoff. "We don't have fairies in this house. Only stars."

He claps and cheers. I look over at my sister, and, despite her smile, she shakes her head. I know I haven't escaped our conversation that easily.

=DitD=

I open my eyes gradually, blinking back the blur and grogginess of five hours of sleep. When I finally focus, Shortcake is looking right at me. Her blue eyes, wide and curious as she sucks on her blanket.

"Good morning," I say with a yawn and a smile. "How are you?" I move closer to her and kiss her on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, beautiful."

I haven't moved her back into her bassinet since the night with Bella. I like having her in my bed. I know I'll have to eventually, but, just recently, I like having the company of someone who loves me while I sleep. She stares at me and grunts. She does love me. I can see it. She reacts so incredibly when I see her after work or when I go to the gym and Mama keeps her. It's the same for me. Every time I see her smile, she owns me even more.

I kiss her head and breathe her in. "I love you," I whisper.

My chest lifts in relief as I say it into her skin. It's a feeling of euphoria the likes of which I've never felt before. They are the truest words I've ever spoken and the most profound.

Her mouth pulls to the side, and she gurgles. In my heart I hear, "I love you, too."

After breakfast, we have a lazy morning. I open the gifts I have bought her with one hand while I feed her with the other. I haven't wrapped all of them. It seemed stupid when she has no clue what's going on. I show her the new plush toy I bought her on my heinous trip to Toys R Us with Alice and lay the onesie over her, telling her how gorgeous she'll look. I bathe her, shower myself as she watches from her new chair, and dress us both for Christmas at Mama Esme's.

Even I have to admit, she looks freaking adorable in her red and white dress, red tights, and red hair band. I struggled with the latter. Nevertheless, understanding my panic with all things girly, Shortcake sat quietly while I fought with it. Her auburn hair spikes and waves beautifully. Mine just looks like a fucking explosion on my head, despite my trying to tame it. It takes all of two seconds before I give up. I'm wearing a white button down with my jeans in an effort to look smart. What more can I do?

We arrive at Mama Esme's to a cacophony of noise and Christmas smells. James and William are running around with their new toys and narrowly miss me as I enter the sitting room carrying Shortcake, her bag, and a sack filled with gifts. Carlisle and Mama kiss me, hug me, and steal away my daughter, cooing over her and lavishing her with presents. I dread to think how many gifts she'll get the older she becomes. Jasper hands me a beer, and Alice kisses my cheek. I pull her into a hug, and she squeezes me. As wonderful as Christmas always is with my aunt and uncle, it is always another Christmas without our mom. Alice's arms tighten around my neck, and she tells me she misses her as much as I do.

"Love ya," she whispers in my ear.

"You, too," I reply, kissing her temple. "Now, get off me and find me my presents." I push her off me gently, and she scurries across the room to a humongous bag, leaving me with her husband.

He shifts closer. "So I hear the other night with Isabella was—"

"Jasper," I warn. "Don't."

He chuckles and nods. "No problem."

We sit around the Christmas tree exchanging gifts and laughing. The warmth of the room has nothing to do with the roaring fire Jasper keeps stoking like a damned caveman. I look around at my family, seeing their smiling faces and happy eyes. I appreciate more than ever how fucking lucky I am. I stare at Shortcake on Carlisle's knee as she wobbles her head from one side to the other, taking in her surroundings and realise I have no recollection of how my life was before she came into it. More shockingly, I don't want to remember. I had nothing before her. I _was_ nothing before her. Now I have everything.

With that thought, my cell phone suddenly feels huge and uncomfortable in my pocket. Since Alice came over the day after my kiss with Bella, it hasn't beeped again. No more texts. Maybe she got the message. I sip my beer and shake away the weird ache that hasn't dissipated since I left her apartment five days ago. I know I'll see her today. Mama Esme invited her to Christmas during our Thanksgiving dinner. I just have no idea what I'm going to say. Awkwardness and women is not something I'm used to, and it pisses me off beyond belief.

An hour later, we sit around the table as Carlisle carves the turkey. Mama Esme's spread is, as always, awesome. I fill my plate to a disgusting level and delve in. Shortcake, in her baby seat, watches us all carefully. Occasionally, she lifts her hand in an effort to touch the brightly coloured elephants and bears which hang across her lap. I spin one for her, and her eyes widen. She's so inquisitive and aware. The pride in my chest swells further.

As is custom on Christmas day, after dinner the men tidy up. Carlisle washes while Jasper and I dry and put away. Even William and James help us, although, they are wetter than the table is after we ask them to wipe it down. We congregate once more in the sitting room and begin to watch Christmas movies. Most of them, per Mama's request, are black and white. My nephews find this totally uncool and boring, and Jasper sets up their Wii in the family room to keep them occupied.

I'll give it five minutes before he and I are facing off on Wii Sports.

I must be making it obvious that I want to play boy games because both Alice and Mama laugh and tell me to go. I don't argue. Shortcake is asleep on my sister's knee after finishing her second bottle, and I kiss her quickly before I make my way to the family room. James and I make a team against Jasper and William, and we start by whooping their asses in bowling. We shout and holler and high-five as we score strike after strike. Even at three-years-old, James is amazing. Jasper and I laugh as he pokes out his tongue during every shot in concentration.

With me on my knees, we chest bump, and I lift him into the air when we win by almost sixty points. I blow on his belly, and he squeals. He's awesome. I'm still twirling him around and telling him what a hero he is when the doorbell rings.

I stop dead and look at Jasper who cocks an eyebrow in question. "Isabella?"

I nod. "Yeah."

I place James on the floor, pick up my beer, and make my way to the hallway. I glance over at Alice as I walk past the sitting room to see her looking annoyed. I pause to ask her what's up, but the voice I hear speaking to Mama quickly alerts me as to why.

Marcus.

_Fuck._

I round the corner. Bella stands next to Marcus as he introduces himself to my aunt and uncle. Her eyes snap to mine, and my throat instantly closes. I try to swallow, but it's difficult. Her dark stare pierces me in places I don't even want to consider. Her face looks tired and drawn. Despite that, she's still beautiful. She slips off her coat, handing it to Carlisle, revealing a red dress that makes every part of her look incredible. My palms begin to tingle with the memory of her skin. I hold my beer bottle tighter.

"Merry Christmas, Edward," Bella says softly.

Both Mama and Marcus look over at me. I don't reply but simply smile tightly.

"Yes, Edward," Marcus adds, wrapping an arm around Bella's waist. "Merry Christmas."

His voice makes my nostrils flare in irritation.

"Edward," Mama says quickly, breaking the heavy silence that's filled the hallway. "Will you show Marcus and Isabella to the sitting room?"

"Sure," I reply, turning from them swiftly.

Alice's expression wants to know what the fuck is going on as I enter with Bella and her asshat boyfriend behind me.

"Alice," I mutter. "This is Marcus."

Alice smiles, but it's not a smile I recognise. It's forced and hard on her face. She puts her hand out to him, still holding Shortcake. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure is mine," Marcus replies as he shakes her hand. His gaze drops to my daughter, and my hackles instantly rise. I don't like him being near her. I don't trust the fucker as far as I could throw him. I take a step forward but stop when Bella reaches for Shortcake's hand.

"And this is the famous baby," Marcus says. I detect a hint of disdain covering his words, and my fists immediately want to meet his face.

"Elizabeth," Bella retorts sharply. "Or Shortcake." She glances over and smiles at me. She turns back to my sister. "May I have a cuddle with our niece?"

Alice nods, her face becoming soft again. "Sure. I've been monopolizing her all day." She passes Shortcake over, and I watch, enamoured, as Bella hugs her closely. She looks so different from the woman who wouldn't touch her so many weeks ago. She looks like a natural. Like a mother.

I clear my throat. "Can I get you guys a drink?"

"Soda, please," Bella answers, never taking her eyes from Shortcake.

"Beer," Marcus adds.

I stride to the kitchen, breathing deeply as I do. I pull the fridge open and grab two beers, suppressing the urge I have to bust one of the bottles over Marcus' head. I don't know where this violence is coming from. I'm not a violent person ordinarily, but I can't deny the surge of aggression building within me. I turn and yelp when I come face-to-face with Carlisle.

"Christ," I complain, clutching my chest. "You scared me."

He eyes me carefully, making me fidget. I slide past him and reach for a glass.

"What's going on?" he asks.

I don't look at him. I know I should, but something in me can't. "Nothing. Why?"

I hear him approach. "Because you're as jittery as a flea, and you look like you're ready to throttle somebody."

I pause in pouring Bella's soda and drop the can on the sideboard. I place my palms on the edge of it and take a deep breath. I exhale when Carlisle's palm presses on my back.

"Tell her how you feel," he whispers.

My head snaps to him, but he's already walking away. His words echo around my head. Tell her how I feel? _Jesus._ How could I possibly do that? Regardless of the consequences, I wouldn't have a clue where to start. I'm let down and hurt. I'm bewildered by how affected I am by her and the fact I can't touch her when I desperately want to. I'm feeling violent, jealous, torn, empty, hot, and unsettled. I feel so much.

No. There's no way I could do that.

Resolute, I grab Bella's soda and Marcus' beer, try to collect myself, and make my way back to the sitting room. Bella still has Shortcake. She and her douchebag, are sitting on the sofa. His arm lies across the back of it, around her. I want to punch his junk.

I hand them their drinks and perch on the arm of Alice's chair. Her knuckle nudges my thigh. She's here for me, and I'm more than fucking thankful. Mama sits in the opposite chair. She asks Marcus questions about his job and life in London. He answers, but I don't hear him. I'm too busy having an intense, silent conversation with Bella. She looks at me through her lashes, and I stare back. She's sorry, her face says. She's as confused as I am. She worries her lip and blinks. My lungs squeeze, and I look away.

"Could I borrow your bathroom?" Marcus asks, sitting forward. He places a hand on Bella's thigh, and I grit my teeth. I know what that part of her feels like.

"Of course," Mama answers. "Edward, will you show him to the bathroom in the backroom?"

I frown at Mama, but she ignores me. "Yeah," I murmur and stand. He follows me through the kitchen and through the den. Hardly anybody uses this bathroom because it takes forever to find it. It's always cold as hell, too.

"Thanks," Marcus chirps, clapping my shoulder as he passes.

I growl under my breath and storm back to the sitting room. Only Alice and Mama remain. Bella has disappeared with Shortcake. "Where are they?"

"Upstairs in your old room. Elizabeth needed changing," Mama replies over the edge of her wine glass.

"Great," I complain, throwing myself up the stairs two at a time. I enter my old room to find Bella on my bed pulling Shortcake's tights back on her.

"You all right?" I ask, closing the door behind me.

"Yeah," she replies. "We're good."

I walk over to them. My daughter looks miniscule in the centre of my old bed. She looks up at me and coos. I chuckle. "Yeah, honey. I see you."

"She looks so cute today," Bella says, holding Shortcake's feet in her hand. "The hair band is adorable."

I scoff. "You wanna try putting the damned thing on her."

Bella laughs lightly. Her eyes slide from Shortcake to me, and I push my hands into my pockets. I shift from foot to foot. "Thanks for coming," I mutter, not knowing what else to say.

"Of course," she replies. "I wouldn't have missed it. I wanted to see her, especially on Christmas." She clears her throat. "I wanted to see you, too."

The room grows smaller as the seconds pass. I stare at the toe of my shoe and sigh. "Look, Bella—"

"Please," she interrupts, standing from the bed. I look at her. "Can I please speak? You didn't give me a chance the other night, and you've been ignoring my texts, avoiding me."

I open my mouth to protest, but her stern expression stops me in my tracks. I glance towards the ceiling. "Fine. Speak."

She licks her lips and clasps her hands together. She tries to speak several times, but nothing comes out. Her embarrassment is endearing as hell, and my chest ripples with lust. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets.

"The other night," she says finally with a long breath. "I—I wanted you to know that . . . I wanted to say that, I wanted it to happen."

I look at her mouth for a split second, remembering the way it felt against mine, her taste. My groin aches.

"I've wanted it to happen for a while," she adds towards the floor.

My shoulders drop in surprise, the tension eases from my spine. I feel relieved that she, too, feels whatever the fuck it is between us.

Her gaze meets mine. "I'm so sorry that Marcus was there."

I blink. My temper twitches. "Because you couldn't get what you wanted?"

She frowns and tilts her head to the right. "What?"

"It's okay," I snap. "I get it."

"No," she snaps back. "You don't." I move to take Shortcake from my bed, but Bella stops me with her hands on my chest. "Don't be so dismissive of me and my feelings. You have no idea what I've been going through these past few days."

"These past few days with your boyfriend?" My face starts to get hot. "Yeah, that must have been really hard for you."

Her eyes narrow, but her voice becomes quiet. She drops her hands from me. I immediately hate their absence. "You don't understand my life, Edward."

"Then explain it to me," I urge. "Tell me what the fuck is going on because I sure as shit don't know."

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at the floor. She says nothing. I laugh humourlessly. "Bella, how can you ask me to understand when you won't help me to?"

She lifts and drops her shoulders and closes her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" I persist taking a step towards her. Unthinkingly, I place my fingers under her chin and lift her face so I can see her. "Talk to me."

Her eyes flicker between mine so quickly I can't keep up. It's as if she's searching for something. I pull my hand away from her chin feeling vulnerable and exposed, but she grabs it and holds it between her palms.

"I wouldn't know where to start," she whispers. She stares down at our entwined hands.

"Tell me about it." Her skin sears my palm. She pushes her tiny fingers between mine. "The other night, Bella," I murmur. "I don't regret it."

She looks at me. "You don't?"

I shake my head. "I wanted to—do what we did for . . . well, a while. I liked it."

"I liked it, too," she replies quietly.

She lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses the knuckles as she did when we were in the cab. Her lips are as soft as I remember. My breath catches, and I grow painfully hard. I move closer to her.

"What happens now?" I ask. My voice sounds hoarse and strained in my ears. I can smell her perfume. It's warm and deep, and I want it back on my pillow.

Abruptly, Bella lets go of my hand. "Marcus is taking me away for New Year," she states plainly.

My brows knit together while my brain tries to adjust to the change of speed and direction in our conversation. I glance over at Shortcake who is still lying on the bed, oblivious to anything but her skirt, which she is putting in her mouth. I look back at Bella. Her big, brown eyes plead with me to understand, but I don't. I don't understand any of it.

I push my hands back into my pockets. "Okay."

"We go away tomorrow, and we'll be back on the third. I don't know where; he wouldn't tell me. It's a surprise." Her voice breaks. "I tried to get out of it. I tried to tell him I couldn't because of Shortcake, but—I don't—I want to be here with you. I'm sorr—"

Unable to finish her sentence, she makes to move towards the bedroom door, but I stop her with a hand on her waist.

"Bella, please," I beg, hating seeing her so upset. "What's going on? _Why_ are you with him? Tell me it's not because you think you _have_ to be."

Without a word, she puts her arms around my neck and puts her lips at the edge of my mouth. On instinct, and, because I can't stop myself, I wrap my arms around her waist and lean into her. We stand like that for an age, silent, being close to one another. Gradually, she pulls back, leaving millimetres between us, and she's all I want. I pull her to me and kiss her with everything I have. The moan that comes from her as I do has my hands cupping her jaw, locking her against me.

I kiss her to tell her I crave her; I'm mad at her; I hate the whole situation.

Her tongue pushes into my mouth, and I suck on it, revelling in her delicious taste. Her hands fist in my shirt, and I kiss her harder. I desperately want to unclip the fastening in her hair and lose myself in it, feel it between my fingers. She feels too fucking good. Her body bends to mine perfectly, and she gasps and sighs with every move I make. I've never needed to feel a woman against me the way I do with Bella. Since I had my first taste of her, all I want is more.

_More. _

The knock at the bedroom door has us separating, jumping apart, and gasping for breath. We freeze, staring at each other, wondering what the fuck to do.

"Coda?"

I exhale the breath I didn't know I was holding. It's Alice. "Yeah?"

"You've been a while. You need to come down." She pauses. "Both of you."

Bella's eyes grow infinitely wider. I touch her arm and shake my head. There's nothing to worry about with Alice. "Be right there."

I stare at Bella as she puts her fingers to her lips. I know she can feel it. I can feel it too. It's a tingle and sizzle under the skin. It burns, sparks, and travels deep into your gut. It makes me hard. I don't allow my brain to think what it does to her.

"I have to go," she says softly.

"Bella?" She stops and turns to me. "Will you explain all this to me one day?"

As if in pain, her face creases. "Yes."

I try to smile, but I know that when she leaves the room, I won't see her until after New Year. "Will you text me when you get to where you're going?"

She nods. "I'll miss—I'll miss her." She glances at my daughter.

"She'll miss you, too," I tell her. What I really want to say seems too big for the moment. "Merry Christmas, Bella."

"Merry Christmas." She walks from me then, takes one last look over her shoulder, and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

As if reading my mind, Shortcake begins to cry. I shush her and pick her up carefully, holding her closely. I kiss her cheek and hum. I realise, as I get to the chorus, I'm singing Secret Garden. Shortcake sniffles and whimpers into my shoulder, calming slowly. Grabbing her diaper bag, I head out of my room and down the stairs just in time to see Bella and Marcus leave through the front door. I don't miss the searing look that Marcus shoots in my direction, but I don't give a shit. He can have her for this next week no matter how much it makes my blood boil. When she comes back, however, I will find out just what the hell is going on.

Mama looks up at me, standing stock still on the stairs. She smiles sadly. "Are you okay?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

Her voice is caring and warm. "You can stay tonight. Alice and the boys are."

I nod. I've brought Shortcake's pyjamas, and Mama has everything else she needs. "Yeah. We'll stay." For whatever reason, the thought of going home is not an exciting one.

She looks towards a large Christmas themed bag sitting in the hallway. "That's for you."

I frown and start to descend the stairs. "From who?"

Mama starts to walk away. "Isabella."

I blink in surprise. It's a large bag, and it's certainly heavy when I lift it. With everything that happened this week, I hadn't even thought about getting her a gift. I really am an asshole. I hand Shortcake to an eager Carlisle and snatch a pair of scissors from the kitchen. In the sitting room, under the curious eyes of my family—save Jasper and the boys who are still playing Wii—I cut the tape holding the bag shut and pull out the presents. Four are for Shortcake. Beautiful dresses, jeans, tops, and shoes are in two of them. Another is a Strawberry Shortcake storybook, and the last one contains baby hair bands and clips, most of which are strawberry pink or have strawberries on them. Everything is perfect.

Alice smiles as she picks up one of the dresses. "These are gorgeous."

I rub the back of my neck in embarrassment. "Yeah. She didn't have to buy _all_ of this."

"She wanted to, Coda," Alice replies.

"What's the last one?" Carlisle asks as he takes Shortcake's hand and kisses it.

"I don't know." I look down into the bag to see a large square package. Bizarrely, I'm nervous about opening it. I sigh and lift it. The nametag flips over as I do, and I read it:

_Edward,_

_Now you have no excuse._

_Love,_

_Ballerina Bella x_

I smile and begin to tear the paper from the box. I freeze when I see what it is. "Holy shit."

"What?" Mama and Alice speak in unison.

I swallow and pull the paper off slowly. "It's a camera." I lift the box from its wrapping and lay it on my lap.

"That looks like one hell of a camera." Jasper's voice carries from the doorway.

"It's a Nikon D4," I tell him, despite knowing that means nothing to him. "It's basically the God of all things photographic and digital."

"It looks expensive," Carlisle adds.

"It is," I murmur. I gape as I stare at the gift worth five thousand dollars. I'm stupefied and altogether speechless.

"Why would she buy you a camera?" Alice asks, glancing at the nametag peeking from the discarded wrapping paper.

"At the art show," I explain, "we talked about my photography. She asked me why I don't do it anymore. I told her I don't have a camera."

"That's very sweet of her," Mama says softly.

I shake my head of the bewilderment clouding it and put it back in the bag. "I can't keep it," I say firmly. "She can't spend that amount of money. It's not right."

Alice snorts. "Do you honestly think she'll take it back? Get serious, Coda. This is Isabella." She gives me the side eye. "Sorry. Bella."

I suppress the overwhelming urge I have to stick my tongue out at my sister and slump back in my seat. I put my palms to my face and exhale into them. This is just too much. Why would she do this? Buying me a camera is one thing. But spending that amount? What the hell possessed her?

I pull my hands from my face when the cushion to my right dips with the weight of someone sitting. I look over at Alice and drop my head back against the back of the sofa. Everyone else has left the room. I smirk. That's been happening a lot lately.

"You kissed again, didn't you?" my sister asks, tucking her feet under herself.

I lift my palms and drop them heavily onto my thighs in defeat. "I couldn't help it," I confess quietly. "I have no control where this woman is concerned. She didn't stop me. And her damned boyfriend was down here." I lift my head. "What the fuck is wrong with me, Al?"

Alice shuffles closer to me on the sofa, and wraps an arm across my stomach, hugging me closely. "You'll figure it out."

=DitD=

We arrived in Scotland. Safe and well. B.

Good. Get me a kilt. E.

Really?

No.

I think you'd look good in a kilt. I'll get you a haggis.

No thanks. I don't eat entrails.

Wuss. How's Shortcake?

She's good. She's wearing her new dress from you today. Very cute.

Send me a pic?

Sure. With my new camera.

Ah! So you're not giving it back? Good.

Didn't give me much choice, did you? It's still too much.

But you love it?

Of course, Bella. It's awesome.

Then that's all that matters.

I'll get you something. Promise.

Don't be silly. Just accept it and move on.

Whatever.

Mature, Edward.

Whatever, Bella.

Hahaha! You're such a child.

*sticks out tongue*

I miss Shortcake.

She misses you, too.

Give her a kiss from me?

Sure. And for me?

A dance.

I'll hold you to it.

I hope so. Speak soon. Back on Tuesday. B. X

=DitD=

I hate New Year.

Always have. I have no real reason to detest it as much as I do, apart from the inflated beer and club prices. I usually hang at Emmett's on New Year's Eve, get shitfaced, stoned, and fucked by some hot assed girl. This year was considerably different.

This year I spent New Year's Eve with my daughter.

We ate. Well, I ate; she had milk. I poured a glass of wine, and we danced to some Boss. We bathed, cuddled some more, and were both in bed at a reasonable hour. I have to be honest, it was the best New Year's I've had in forever.

The only thing that would've made it better would've been if Bella were with us. I can't deny it; I've missed the fucking bones of her this past week. We've texted, but it's not the same. I try not to think about what she's doing with Marcus, but it's difficult. She was clearly upset on Christmas at Mama's house, so I worry about her.

If I find out she's hurting in some way—physical or mental—I'll kill him.

My brain is still entirely fucked up. The speed with which my affection for Bella and my need to be near her has grown, has floored my ass. I've wanted to fuck girls before but never desired just to be near them. I care about her and think about her more than any other woman I know. I wonder if she thinks about me. I think about whether she'd be jealous if I called Charlotte and asked her over.

Which I haven't, although, I _have_ thought about it. I know I can't fuck someone else in the hopes that Bella will disappear from my mind, but what else can I do?

I stare at myself in the mirror and rub baby oil across my chest. I'm back at the club. Our first show of the New Year, and I can't deny I'm ready for it. The adrenaline pumps through me indiscriminately, making my heart beat faster and my lungs squeeze tighter. Emmett hasn't spoken much to me, but I couldn't care less. He's been prickly since I left the night Shortcake was in hospital. I've told him in my own ways that if he's not happy with me he can fire my ass. The dollars in his pocket keep his mouth shut.

I rub the oil down my arms and wash it off my hands as Tyler sprays my back with it. Next is the gel for my hair. I spike that shit up and let it do its thing while I sprinkle glitter on my chest and put liner on my eyes. I pull on my wife beater, my sweats over my red thong, and pull on my black hoodie. I knock back a shot of Jack, and, after putting on my Nikes, jump up and down on the spot, needing to release some on the pent up energy that's surging from the very centre of my bones.

I've already done one group dance, but this solo dance is what I've been waiting for. I've practised this repeatedly, and I'm looking forward to the reaction it'll get. It's not too dissimilar from my other hip-hop dances, but the music is something new entirely.

Emmett stands on the stage, hollering and enticing the women, telling them how much I want to hear them shout my name, which they begin to do almost immediately. I stand behind the curtain, closing my eyes, letting their voices lift me. After holding my daughter and sex, this is my favourite thing.

"Ladies, give it up for the incredible Coda."

I pull my hood up. I stand, head down, legs apart, arms at my side as the beats of Ginuwine's Pony begin.

The curtain pulls back, and the women cry out louder. I rotate my neck and move down the steps onto the stage, unzipping my hoodie as I go. I grind and drop it slowly from my shoulders and fall back onto my hands. I thrust my hips up into the air, before flipping over onto my front. I fuck the stage and move across it, making my body ripple and dip as I go. I look out to the crowd and smile.

They go apeshit.

I stand up and grip the neck of my wife beater. I pull it forwards over my head, rub it down my body, push it into my sweats, and then throw it to the women at the front table. I let my hands move across my stomach, over my crotch, and drop to the stage on my knees. I look around the faces of the women and flick my tongue out at them. I thrust at them. I tease and taunt them. I stand once more, position myself at the edge of the stage, turn so my back is to the crowd, and do a backwards flip. I land with ease and start making my way towards table three. The pretty woman with blonde hair has paid a sweet penny to be danced for tonight.

As I move towards her, still dancing and grinding, I glance up towards the bar, where Emmett usually sits to watch our solo dances.

What I see, instead, has me almost flat on my ass in shock.

At the end of the bar is a familiar looking red head. Next to her, Martini glass in hand is Bella.

**Holy Bella saw all that and she can still breathe, Batman?**

**Thanks for your patience. I truly appreciate it.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**Much love to Purely amuse for being my grammar queen. This sparkles so much more because of her.**

**TTFN xx**


	15. Chapter 14

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**I don't understand, darling, what was my sin?**

**Why am I down here below, and your arms are open to him?**

**What did I do, what did I say, what must I pay, to get you to**

**Talk to me, just until the night's over?**

I stand in the middle of the club with chanting, screaming women all around me, unable to drag my eyes from Bella. She sips her drink, keeping her piercing gaze on mine. Despite my shock, I continue to move my body, keeping the eager, oblivious stares of the crowd on me. The beat of the music pulses through me, joining the absolute disbelief and confusion at seeing her in Eclipse.

Bella's to be in Scotland until tomorrow. Why the hell is she here?

At once, panic slices through me. Shortcake. Has something happened to Shortcake? No. It can't be. She's with Mama. If something were wrong, she'd call or text, and I checked my phone before I came on stage. Besides, Bella looks okay. In fact, she looks sensational in her silk-like, deep purple top and dark jeans. I glimpse a black heel on her foot and swallow. If there were an emergency, there would be no way she'd be sipping a cocktail, looking at me the way she is: hungry and curious.

I run my hand across my mouth, suddenly not sure what to do.

A small blonde-haired woman gesticulates wildly, bringing my stare from Bella down to her table. Table three. Ah. Yes. The dance. She points to the thirty banner draped across her shoulder and chest and smiles. I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and smile back. I need to keep my shit together. Having Bella here is certainly a shock, but I need to keep my head in the game for another couple of hours before I find out what the fuck is going on.

Slowly, I find the rhythm of the music and begin to dip my body towards the blonde. Cristy, she tells me. Her palms rub over the ink on my arms as I crouch. I put my hands under her thighs and lift her up. She squeals as I adjust her, making sure she's secure and safe with her legs dangling over my shoulders, down my back, with her crotch inches from my face. I turn and lay her gently on the stage. She lies back, and I jump up next to her. With a wink to the crowd, I begin to pull off my sneakers. I turn around, my back towards the crowd, and slowly drop my sweats. The screams become deafening as they see my ass, my thighs, and then I'm on stage in nothing but a red thong.

My skin prickles under Bella's stare. I don't look back at her. I can't allow myself to lose focus. My mind whirs with the knowledge that she's watching. I'm simultaneously terrified and turned on. My flesh pimples as I drop and begin to simulate sex with Cristy. I put her ankles on my shoulders and thrust, leaving a safe—no rubbing or touching—gap between us. She laughs and covers her face in embarrassment as her friends encourage her and shout from their seats. She sticks two tens in the elastic of my thong. I drop over her, bury my face into her shoulder, and pretend to fuck her more. She grips my sides and lifts her legs up high making the women in the audience laugh and cry out. She giggles, whoops, and raises her arms, as I act as if I'm ravaging her.

Standing up, I pull Cristy with me, lead her to a chair Emmett has placed in the middle of the stage, and continue my dance for her. She touches my chest, back, and ass as I do, but that's nothing new. By the time I've finished my ten minutes with Cristy, the place is going wild, and I'm drenched in sweat. I kiss the back of Cristy's hand and lead her back to her table. I bow and wave at the women who are clapping and whistling. Some stand and cheer, and I wink in thanks.

Avoiding looking in the direction of the bar, I hurry backstage. As soon as I'm out of sight, I slump against the cool wall and drop my head back. I close my eyes and try to breathe.

My heart hammers in my chest, but it's not from the dance. It's from knowing Bella saw everything I just did. Brimming with frustration, I clench my fist and smack it hard against the wall. I can't stop the embarrassment that swells from my feet to the crown of my head. What the _hell _must she think of me? I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. The mortification rushes through my veins, making my mouth dry and my stomach heavy. I've _never_ felt this way about my stripping.

I'm not stupid. I know it's not the most glamorous or inspiring of careers. I know that my daughter will cringe when she is old enough to understand what her daddy did for a living, but I know I'll not do it forever. I work, and I earn good money to feed and clothe my daughter. A daughter I may not have had were it not for this job.

Nevertheless, seeing Bella in the club shrouds me with uncertainty and something that tastes suspiciously like shame. I despise it. I've teased her about coming to the club. I think I actually wanted her to come. But, now, as I look down at myself, naked save for a minute piece of red material—knowing that Bella watched me—I feel nothing but dirty. I stare at my hands and sigh. The hands I used to touch her are now the hands she's seen me put all over somebody else's body.

A stinging realisation slams into my chest leaving me breathless: I'm not good enough for her.

"Come on, Coda!" Mike calls from the dressing room. "Group dance in twenty, man."

Slowly, I rub my hands down my face, smearing liner onto my cheeks, darkening my fingertips. I have to try to regroup. I can't let Bella's presence here change a damned thing. I have more dances, and I need to get my ass on the stage to do them. I can't allow my conscience to stop me from doing what I'm paid to. Whatever the reason for Bella's presence tonight, I'll find out once the show is over, once I've earned my money.

I push off from the wall and head into the dressing room with the other boys. Their wary glances sting my skin, but I don't give a fuck. All I care about is the next dance.

=DitD=

I'm pulling on my jeans at the end of the night when Emmett taps me on the shoulder. He hands me a wad of cash—my takings from the door—and folds his arms over his mammoth chest. His expression is stony.

I push the money in my back pocket and reach for my white t-shirt and hoodie. "What?" I ask when his silence continues.

"You were different tonight," he replies quietly. "What's up?"

I shake my head and laugh humourlessly. Like he gives a shit. "Nothing you need to worry about."

He hums in a way that tells me he doesn't believe a word that came out of my mouth. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the drunk ass brunette asking for you out there, would it?"

I freeze and stare at him. He nods. "Fuck." I push past him, run through the dressing room, down the hall, and back out into the club that is now empty save for the bar staff, Bella, and her red haired friend, Victoria.

Victoria looks over at me and shakes her head despondently. I frown and approach them, pushing my hands into my pockets. Bella, who is perched precariously on a bar stool and talking to Rick, our head barman, turns to look at me. A lopsided smile appears on her face. She's shitfaced.

"Edward!" she cries, lifting her arms into the air and swaying backwards. "There you are!" She drops her arms heavily and pouts. "Were you hiding from us?"

I narrow my eyes and glance at Victoria. She cups a hand to her mouth as she watches her friend. She's sober, and I'm even more confused. Bella told me she doesn't drink. Sure, she's had a glass of wine here and there, even some champagne, but she's always been sensible.

"I was getting dressed," I say, moving closer to her.

"You needn't have bothered," Bella slurs. She widens her eyes. "We saw _everything_ tonight already." She pulls an 'eek' face.

My cheeks heat. I take a deep breath and another step towards her. "Looks like you've drunk everything, too."

Bella holds one finger up and scowls. "Now, now. We're just getting started." She smiles at Rick. "My friend here was just about to make me another cocktail."

I glare at Rick and shake my head. He backs away and starts to collect glasses.

"I think you've had enough," I tell her.

"I don't need you," she pokes me hard in the chest, "or any other man to tell me I've had enough. I'll tell _you_ when I've had enough." The sharpness of her reply is like a slap to the face. Her drunk eyes swim, but there's no denying the fire in them. She's looking for a fight tonight.

I look towards Victoria. She sighs and licks her lips. "Maybe we should go, Isabella. It's late."

Bella stares at her friend for a beat before she collapses into hysterical laughter. She drops her head to the bar counter and snorts loudly. "Jesus, I'm surrounded by people who care! Who knew?"

"Edward's right," Victoria adds in a firmer tone. "You've had enough."

"Edward doesn't know shit," Bella snaps. She takes a sip from the dregs of her drink. "He's a thirty-year-old stripper."

And there it is. Right there.

My chest clenches at the same time as my teeth. Ordinarily, I'd shout and cause a scene, but, after tonight, I know her derision is warranted. It doesn't matter if she's drunk, or if she even _means_ it, I hear the uncomfortable truth in her words.

I exhale heavily and run a hand through my shower-wet hair. Victoria motions to say something—an apology for her friend perhaps—but I shake my head, stopping her. I step forward and wrap my hand around Bella's bicep. I lift her easily from her seat and put her on her feet. She staggers, but I don't let go.

"I'm twenty-nine," I tell her. "And you need to leave." I try to keep the snarl behind my teeth. I mange to. Barely.

"I don't _want_ to leave," she retorts with a sway. Her mascara has smeared a little under her eyes, and my fingers twitch to wipe it away. "I want another drink."

"Go home," I order, snatching her purse from the bar. "You need to sleep it off."

"Don't tell me what to do," she shouts like a petulant child as she tries to pull her arms from my grasp. I release my grip, and she stumbles backwards.

"What are you even _doing_ here?" I ask incredulous as she rights herself and takes an unsteady step back towards the bar.

She wobbles over to her stool and nods her head. "That," she replies, "is an excellent question."

"Do I get an answer?" I ask in exasperation.

"Nope." She pops the p and snickers to herself. She looks around. "Why is there no music anymore? I wanna dance." She snaps her fingers to a silent beat and begins to sway.

Victoria looks helpless and moves closer to me. "God, I'm sorry, Edward. She wanted to see you," she explains.

Bella is oblivious to our conversation. "I thought she was in Scotland with Marcus."

"She was," she answers solemnly. "Something happened, and she came back late last night. Alone. I picked her up from the airport and took her home, but she hasn't told me anything. All she wanted, all she kept saying was that she had to come here and see you."

I exhale and rub a weary hand down my face. I watch Bella as she staggers to the music only she can hear. "Look," I say to Victoria on a long breath. "It's late. You go home. I'll make sure she gets back okay."

Victoria starts to shake her head.

"It's fine," I add. "Really."

Victoria watches Bella for a moment and glances at her watch. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'll keep her safe."

Victoria gives a sympathetic smile and places a gentle hand on my arm. "I know you will. Thanks, Edward." She doesn't say goodbye to Bella. There's no point. She leaves with a gloomy expression on her face and a lingering look in my direction.

I turn back to Bella who is still dancing—or trying to—and ask Rick for a bottle of Corona. He snaps off the top and hands it to me with a slice of lime in the neck. Leaning against the bar, I sip it, keeping my eyes on the woman who has turned my mind and heart upside down. She's unaware of everything and everyone near her and continues to stumble and stagger to the unidentifiable tune she keeps humming. As I watch her, a blanket of sadness covers me. She looks so entirely lost, so chaotic.

This isn't Bella. This isn't _my_ Bella.

This is something else. _She_ is someone else. I have no doubt that her words tonight, which stung and pierced me deeply, have been festering within her for a while.

Do I think she believes them, meant them?

No.

Despite my initial feelings towards Isabella Swan, I know she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. But the truth of her comment weighs heavy on my shoulders. As unnerving as it is to see her this way, and despite the sour taste her words have left in my mouth, the overwhelming desire to look after her, to take care of her, is undeniable.

Bella moves perilously close to the two steps, which lead to the club's seating area. I stand. "Watch it, Bell—"

But I'm too late. She wobbles as her heel meets the step's edge and falls sideways, landing with a resounding 'oomph' as her ass hits the floor. I try to get to her, but I'm not quick enough. I hurry over and lift her up. She's disorientated, stumbling, but laughing in a high-pitched tone that sets my teeth on edge. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her arm over my shoulder.

"Let's get you home," I say quietly.

She doesn't argue. Instead, she drops her head against my chest. Her eyes close briefly. I grab her purse from the bar where I left it, ask Rick to get my shit from the dressing room, and walk her out to my car. I place her carefully in the passenger seat as she mumbles words I can't decipher. Her head lolls backwards, and I pray to all that is holy she doesn't vomit all over my car.

She doesn't.

We reach her apartment building, and I fish her keys from her purse. She's almost asleep. I rub her arm to rouse her. "You're home," I whisper.

She opens her eyes to tiny slits and grapples with her seat belt. I help her with it. She remains in the car, head back, eyes barely open.

"Edward," she croaks.

"What?"

She breathes heavily and drops her chin to her chest. I sigh, unclip my seat belt, and make my way around the car to help her out. With my arms firmly around her, I take her into her apartment building, hold her while we're in the elevator, and guide her down the hallway to her door. She slumps against the wall and kicks off her shoes as I unlock her door. I pick them up and take her inside.

Closing the apartment door, I watch as she shrugs out of her denim jacket, throwing it on the sofa, and plods towards her bedroom. I follow closely, making sure she doesn't bump into or fall over anything. I stand in the doorway as she flips on the light and take in her bedroom for the first time.

It's large with an en-suite and cream walls. Her bed is huge, covered in a black comforter, black sheets, and pink cushions, which she begins to fire off in several directions. I smirk at her apparent frustration with the damned things. There is a huge double wardrobe and two chests of drawers covered with ornaments and pictures I can't quite make out. It's tasteful, simple. It's totally Bella.

I glance back at her to compliment her on her decorative skills, and my jaw goes slack.

With complete disregard to me or my sanity, Bella unfastens her jeans and pulls them off, leaving her in her purple top, and black lace panties, which hug every spectacular curve. I swallow. I hold my breath, waiting, hoping she takes off her top, too, or, at the very least, takes her hair down from the tight ponytail it's pinned up in. Instead, she flings back the comforter and slides underneath it.

I exhale and clear my throat. "Christ."

I wander into the kitchen, find a glass, and fill it with cold water. I knock it back to cool myself down before filling it again. Back in Bella's bedroom, I place the full glass on the side table and stare at her. Her eyes are closed. She looks so peaceful. Beautiful. Thoughtlessly, I let the back of my index finger whisper across her cheek. Her skin is baby soft and makes my hand tingle as it drops back at my side. Quietly as I can, I make my way back across the bedroom to the doorway.

"Edward."

My hand freezes on the light switch. "Yeah?"

She turns her head slightly. "Stay with me until I fall asleep? I don't want to be on my own tonight."

I frown. Her voice is small. Still drunk, but needful. "Um—"

"Please, I need . . . please?"

I glance at my watch. It's past three. Mama has Shortcake until late tomorrow—she's showing her off to some friends over coffee—so I don't need to be home, but I'm not sure it's such a good idea. I look around for a chair to sit in but find none.

"Sure," I reply. "I'll be in the sitting room."

"No," she says quickly. "Here. With me. Just sit with me. Only until I fall asleep."

I shift from one foot to the other, suddenly tense. I run a hand through my hair as I consider what I should do. I_ could_ sit on her bed. She won't take long to fall asleep, fifteen minutes maybe, and then I can leave. "Okay."

I walk back to the bed and sit down carefully. I kick off my sneakers and sit back against the cushions and headboard. There's a good three inches between my thigh and Bella's back. It's a comfortable distance, although, I can't deny the urge I have to spoon the shit out of her. That revelation stuns me. I don't do things like _spooning_. I don't hug women in bed or like any other type of intimacy outside of sex. It's uncomfortable and awkward for me. I don't crave the feel of a woman's body against me unless we're both naked. The longing I have to be close to Bella is entirely alien to me.

I close my eyes and drop my head back.

This woman is going to kill me.

"Thank you, Edward," she whispers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

=DitD=

I wake with a start. I'm groggy from sleep, and my eyes dart quickly around the room. Disorientation grips me until I remember I'm not at home. I'm in Bella's apartment. In her bed. It's five-thirty. I adjust myself against the cushions at my back, uncomfortable from sleeping in my jeans, and notice her side of the bed is empty. My head snaps up when I hear a muffled groan.

I lift slightly, trying to beat back the sleepiness and figure out where exactly the sound is coming from. I hear sobs and mumbled words. I look towards the en-suite. There's no light coming from under the door, but I'm fairly sure that's where the noise emerged.

"Bella?" I stand slowly on sleepy legs and take a couple of steps towards the bathroom.

The only reply is a low moan and another sob. She's definitely in there, and she sounds distraught. I knock harder and louder than is probably necessary, but panic has started to rise up my throat.

"Bella," I say again. "Are you okay?"

When she doesn't answer, I try the handle. The door is unlocked and opens gradually. I try to find her in the dark, but it's a struggle. I reach for the light switch and curse loudly when it blinds my drowsy eyes. I rub them once and try to focus. What I see breaks me in two. Bella is slumped between the bathtub and the toilet. She's been sick. But that isn't what bothers me. It's her face. It's a mass of mascara and tears, and she's sobbing so hard, she can barely catch her breath. For the first time ever, I see Bella with her hair down. It is a tangled mess around her face, knotted and sweaty around her hairline.

I drop to a crouch at her side and place my hand on the forearm wound around her knees. She looks as if she's trying to make herself as small as possible. She flinches.

"It's okay," I say softly. "It's only me."

She lifts her head. Her face crumples and she releases another moan and more tears when she sees me. "I'm so sor-sorry," she croaks.

I move my hand to her head and feel her hair under my palm. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

"But it's all my fault. All of it."

I smile gently. "It happens, Bella. You drink. You spew. That's life."

She shakes her head. "No."

"No?"

She drops her head back against the lip of the tub. "You don't understand."

Something in her voice makes the hair on my neck rise. I ignore it, lift a cloth from the edge of the sink, and douse it with water. After wringing it out, I crouch next to Bella and start to wipe her face. I wipe gently under her eyes, removing the dark trails left by her tears. She sighs as I do.

"You're my nightmare," she whispers.

I freeze. "What?"

She lets her head fall to the left; she stares hard at me. Her eyes are still blurry, but I can see more of her in them.

"You," she repeats. "You're . . . everything I shouldn't have in my life."

I swallow the ache her words cause in my chest and start wiping her face again. "I'm sorry you feel that way." Anger ripples under my skin. "But you're hardly bringing sunshine and fucking rainbows into my life right now."

Her hand reaches out and cups my cheek. The touch is unexpected, but the sensation of her skin on mine dilutes any annoyance I may have felt. She gives me a sad smile.

"Like I said," she murmurs. "You don't understand."

I breathe heavily down my nose in frustration and shake my head. "You're right," I snap. "I _don't_ understand."

I don't understand why she's in the state she is. I don't understand why she came to the club or why she's been so hostile. I don't know why she affects me the way she does or why I can't stop thinking about her. I don't know why she's back without Marcus, and I don't know why she stays in a relationship with him when she's clearly miserable.

She releases my cheek and lets me finish washing her face. She shivers. "Come on," I say firmly. "You need to get back to bed. You're freezing."

Unable to get her to move, I place my arm under her knees and one behind her back and lift her, cradling her to my chest. She's feather light. She doesn't fight but simply slumps against me. She takes a large breath next to my neck, making my skin break out into gooseflesh. I try to ignore the fact that she's half-naked in my arms and hold her closely. Back in the bedroom, I manage to push the covers back and slide her underneath them. Once she's comfortable, I pull them over her. Her hair spills out over her pillow, and I'm suddenly desperate to smell it.

I look towards the clock. It's almost six in the morning.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," Bella mumbles.

I look down at her. "What?"

"If you left. I'd understand. I don't deserve you being here." A tear escapes her eye. "I don't deserve any of it."

Exasperated, I drop down onto my haunches so I'm eye level with her. "What are you talking about?" I ask. The pleading in my voice is clear. "Why are you saying stuff like this to me?"

She pushes her face into her pillow and sniffles. "Because . . . you don't know me. You don't know why I am the way I am. _Who_ I am. You deserve better than me."

My mind reels. "Are you serious?" She opens her eyes to look at me. "Bella, you said it yourself. I'm a fucking stripper. I know shit."

"That's not true." Her face crumples. "You're—you are so much. . . God, Edward, I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."

I _should_ feel relieved, but, despite her apology, I know I can't hide from the reality of my situation or the veracity that was entwined with her drunken candour. I place a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. And I don't mind staying."

"You don't?"

"No." I make my way to the other side of the bed—my side—take off my hoodie, and lie down next to her. "I want to."

It's the truth. I _want_ to stay with her. I want to find out what's going on. But, most of all, I want to be close to her. Unable to resist, I move nearer to her so my thigh is touching her back. I'm not spooning her, but, for now, it's enough.

=DitD=

The next time I wake strong sunlight streams through Bella's curtains. I rub my hands down my face and look at the clock. Ten-thirty. Once again, I'm alone. I glance over at the en-suite, but it's empty. Sitting up with a groan, I stand and make my way to the toilet. Once I've done my thing and am suitably awake after a splash of cold water on my face and a fingertip full of toothpaste in my mouth, I cautiously head out of Bella's bedroom towards the sitting room. It's empty. I hear what sounds like a dropped plate erupt from the kitchen and walk in that direction.

Bella is standing at the sink. I smell coffee and toast, and my mouth immediately starts to water. I clear my throat, making Bella turn quickly. Her hair is back up in a bun. She's wearing an oversized Harvard t-shirt—that I hope isn't Marcus'—and sweats. I already miss the black lace panties.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning." She fidgets with the dishtowel in her hands. Her eyes flit around me, and the silence becomes awkward. "Coffee?"

"I'd love some." I take the liberty of pulling out a chair at her kitchen table and take a seat. Bella scurries around the place making me even more uncomfortable. She places a large mug of coffee in front of me along with a bowl of sugar and milk. I smile at the fact that she remembers how I take it.

"How's the head?" I ask casually as she pulls some bread and butter from the fridge.

She pauses. "Um, it's okay. I'm tired."

"Me too," I reply, dumping two massive sugars into my coffee.

Bella stills at the kitchen counter. Her chin drops to her chest before she turns to me slowly. Her face it etched with embarrassment, and her cheeks bloom a beautiful hue of pink.

"Edward," she begins. She exhales heavily. "I cannot apologise enough for my behaviour last night."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "What do you remember?"

She shakes her head. "Not much."

I shrug and pour the milk. "Then why are you apologising?" I stir the spoon slowly.

She fishes her cell from her sweats' pocket. "Victoria texted me. She said I needed to apologise profusely."

"Ah." I sip my coffee.

Bella moves and sits herself across from me. "She said I was a disgrace, actually. She said I said some . . . terrible things to you."

I don't reply. What is there to say? Her words have been all I can think about.

"I want you to know," Bella continues, "what you saw last night. It's not me. I mean, I don't get like that. I don't drink like that. Not for . . . a long time." Her voice wavers. "It was just—I just needed to let loose." Her eyes bore into mine. "But that doesn't excuse it. I should never have come to the club. That was wrong of me. And you shouldn't have had to look after me. Not that I'm not exceedingly grateful that you did."

"It's all right," I say nonchalantly.

"No, it's not, Edward," Bella retorts firmly. "I'm truly, truly sorry."

"Stop apologising," I say curtly. "I told you it's all right."

She looks down at her hands, and I instantly feel like a prick. I rub my forehead. "Look, Bella, I don't need to know your inner most secrets, okay? I don't." I wait for her to meet my gaze, which she does, cautiously. "But last night, there was something different about you. And it wasn't just the booze. I've never seen anyone cry as much or be so—"

"Ridiculous?" she interrupts me with a wary smile.

I sigh. "I was going to say lost."

A flash of the same desolation I saw in her bathroom sweeps across her face, and I instantly reach for her hand. Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. Her eyes wander over my bare arms, across the ink that lies there, until she meets my gaze.

"Talk to me, Bella," I plead. "Why are you here? What happened in Scotland?"

Her eyes immediately fill with tears and her lip trembles. She tries her best to hold her emotions in, but I can see it's a struggle. After an age of silence, she puts a hand to her face. She leans her elbow on the table and cries into her palm. I'm impotent. I have no idea what to do. Something stops me from going to her, from holding her, despite the desire I have to feel her against me.

I sit back in my seat and wait. She continues to cry. She wipes under her eyes with her fingertips. She lifts her head and breathes deeply. Her shoulders hunch as if the weight she carries on them is momentous.

"While we were in Scotland," she starts. She clears her throat and glances towards the ceiling. "Marcus—he, um . . . Marcus proposed."

It's a strange feeling when your stomach suddenly falls to the soles of your feet, which mine does so quickly I can barely comprehend it. My heart starts a frenzied beat, tightening my chest and making me shift in my seat. I stay silent, my eyes glued to hers. I'm not sure I'm breathing. I can hear nothing over the words she just spoke as they echo around my head.

He proposed.

Without my permission, my gaze snaps quickly to her left hand, specifically the third _finger_ on her left hand.

It's bare.

Nevertheless, my teeth might shatter I'm so tightly wound. I breathe deeply through my nose. Could we be over before we've even started? The word _we_ reverberates through my body. Until this moment, I didn't even know I wanted that. I didn't know I wanted us as we. All the same, taking the option away leaves me startled.

Bella remains mute. Her eyes drop from mine to her hands. She licks her lips and tucks her hair behind her ear. My frustration begins to rise.

"So," I begin. My throat scratches as the words push through it. "What did you say?"

Bella laughs humourlessly. She puts her palms to her forehead and leans her elbows on the table. "I told him I needed to think about it. I told him I needed time."

I know I shouldn't feel relief, but my lungs clearly don't get the memo. They evict air in a giant whoosh. My shoulders drop at the same time my chin does. "Oh," is all I can say.

"I can't make a decision," Bella murmurs. "Not when . . ." She trails off and sears me with a look that makes my mouth dry.

I lean forward. "When what, Bella?"

"When there's Shortcake," she whispers. "And you."

The left side of my mouth lifts. "Me?"

She nods. "There are too many variables; too many things to think about."

I frown, ignoring the fact that she didn't embellish. "Variables? Like what?"

"My job," she answers quickly. "I've been offered a job."

"That's great," I reply honestly.

"In California."

I swallow thickly and sit back slowly. "California?"

"Yeah. It's a twelve-week contract for a company out there." She wraps her arms around herself and sighs. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime; a real step up for me to get my name out there. It's great money, but it would take me away from . . . you."

My heart stutters. "And Shortcake," I add.

A grimace teases at the corners of her mouth. "Yes."

She stands and fills my cup with coffee, grabbing one for herself. She puts bread into the toaster and lathers the two slices with butter after it pops up. She places the plate in front of me, but I'm suddenly not hungry. She sits down and clasps her cup, sipping gingerly.

"What did Marcus say about the job?" I ask carefully.

Her eyes dart to me and away quickly. "He doesn't know about it." She sees my expression of curiosity and places her cup on the table. "Marcus isn't a bad guy, Edward."

I scoff.

"No, really," she insists. "He's not."

"Then why are you so fucking miserable with him?"

Her eyes widen. She looks utterly shocked at my words. She clears her throat. "I'm not miserable," she counters.

"Bullshit."

Her eyes narrow then, all timidity and quiet leaving her face in a second. "You know nothing about it."

"No," I agree. "I don't because you don't tell me. I'm just the asshole who has to bring you home, wipe your face, and lift you off the bathroom floor while you mumble nonsense and cry."

Her cheeks redden immediately. The fire that had ignited in her stare dulls considerably.

I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers. "Bella," I say softly. "I'm not trying to be a prick here. I just want to know what's going on. I'm worried about you." I pause. She doesn't react in any way. "Was last night about Marcus?"

She shakes her head minutely. "Not_ just_ about Marcus," she murmurs.

"Then what?" I press, throwing caution to the wind and letting the chips fall where they may.

The question hovers over us like a dark cloud. A shiver runs through me, and I immediately wish I'd grabbed my hoodie.

"Shall we go into the sitting room?" Bella asks. "I think we would be more comfortable in there. It's warmer"

I shrug. "Sure."

I follow her. She sits on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath herself. I sit at the opposite end, instantly feeling warmer with the gas fire mounted on the wall. Bella stares towards it, watching the flames flicker against the glass. I notice she's added a few more watercolours to her collection. The swathes of blue and red are exquisite.

"I wasn't always like this," Bella says quietly, bringing my eyes from her artwork. "I wasn't always so . . . uptight."

She fidgets and pulls the huge t-shirt over her knees. The gesture is so childlike I immediately want to hold her.

"I was . . . difficult when I was a teenager. Around the age of sixteen, seventeen, I went through a phase of hating my parents, stubbornness, defiance. Despite my mom and Phil giving Leah and I whatever we needed, I was—well, I was terrible. I felt pressured, trapped."

I frown. "Pressured?"

She glances at me and sighs. "Phil and my mom were both lawyers. They knew each other for years, even when they were with other people. Phil was an exceptional lawyer. He went to Harvard and was top of his class. My mom was the same." She rubs a hand across the back of her neck. "The expectation that I would follow in their footsteps was always there. They never said it outright, but I knew that's what they wanted. Even before Phil, when I was still a kid, my mom would drop hints that I should work hard so I could go to law school." She closes her eyes and takes a moment to breathe deeply. "I didn't want any of it." She looks at me through her lashes. "I wanted to be a dancer."

"The ballet," I whisper. _Ballerina Bella._

She nods mournfully. "Leah was always the sensible one. She always did great at school. She wanted to be an art teacher. She'd have been amazing, too."

I smile sadly and rub the ache that has begun in my chest when Bella glances at a black and white picture of herself and Leah that hangs on the wall. They both look beautiful. They're no older than twelve years old.

"There were never any comments made about Leah being a lawyer," she continues. "My parents accepted what she wanted and were fine about it. For a long time, I envied her. She was free to do what she wanted, and I—I had a path already worked out for me. In hindsight, I know they only wanted the best for me. They were my parents, they loved me, and, really, they didn't push me to do anything. They simply hoped I'd follow the dreams they had for me. I was—I was a fucking idiot. I was a kid, Edward."

She licks her lips, sips her drink, and stares at the floor. I watch her, taking in her brokenness, listening to the pain and regret that lace every word she speaks.

"When I was a junior, I met a boy. Royce. He was mysterious and cool. He rode a motorcycle and swore at teachers. He smoked, drank, hated any type of authority, but he liked me." She presses her lips together and shifts in her seat. "As you can imagine, my parents were against my relationship with Royce from the start, and, of course, this pushed me closer to him."

"I would come home drunk at ridiculous times in the morning. I smoked weed. I treated my parents—I was . . . I wasn't their daughter anymore. I was Royce's and that's all that mattered." She wipes at her eyes. "I made my own mother cry." She shakes her head. "I hated what I did to her, to Phil, but I hated their rules more. I stayed out, missed school." She glances at me. "And I started sleeping with Royce. He said he loved me, and I believed him."

My heart splinters, hoping that she wasn't forced or made to think she had to sleep with the asshole. The need to find Royce and smash his face erupts through my bones.

"I kept a journal," Bella adds, bringing my mind from ways I could make the bastard suffer. "I wrote about Royce and my love for him. It was an infatuation, I know that now, but then . . . it was the most important thing in the world." She takes an almighty breath. "Then I realised I was late." Her eyes slide to mine, and she stares at me meaningfully.

I nod in understanding.

"At first I didn't know what to do. I couldn't talk to anyone. Leah barely spoke to me because of my behaviour, and I'd alienated all of my friends since being with Royce. I went to him and told him." She laughs humourlessly. "He said it was nothing to do with him. He _wanted_ nothing to do with it. He told me I had to get rid of it or he would get rid of me."

"Bella," I murmur. I shift closer to her, but she moves back. I know she needs to have space to say what she has to, but my hands itch to touch her.

She speaks quickly as if the words are too big and painful for her mouth. "I made an appointment at a clinic in the city. I had money saved. I'd made my decision; I couldn't live without Royce. Leah stopped me as I was leaving the house. She knew something was up. I'd had terrible morning sickness, so she was suspicious. She threw all the hurt and pain I'd caused back at me. She screamed that I'd devastated mom and Phil, how she didn't know me anymore; how Royce was a bad influence. I told her to mind her own business." She shrugs and wraps her arms around herself. "All she wanted to do was help. But I didn't listen. I _wouldn't_."

Bella's voice breaks, and she buries her face against her arms. Her shoulders shake with her silent sobs, and I reach out to touch the tip of her socked foot. She lifts her head. Her eyes are red from her tears.

"I got to the clinic hours before I needed to and realised I couldn't go through with the termination. It wasn't an _it_ inside of me; it was mine and Royce's baby, and I wanted to keep him or her. I wandered the streets of the city, trying to figure out what to do, how I would tell my mom, how I would finish school. For the first time in almost a year, I wanted to do well in school so I could be the best mother to my baby." She smiles despondently. "I thought about becoming a lawyer."

"On my way back to the clinic to cancel my appointment, I saw Phil's car. I've never been so scared in my life. They were both waiting for me. They knew all about the baby, about my appointment. With no other option after finding Leah in tears, Phil had had my cell phone records checked. They read my journal. They knew everything."

"What did they say?" I ask after an age of silence.

"What could they say? I was resolute in what I wanted. We argued outside the clinic until it went dark. My mom was so disappointed in me; I could see it in her eyes. Phil, as ever, tried to be objective." She puts her fingertips to her lips. "God, they loved me so much. How could I not see it, Edward?"

I shake my head slowly. "You were young," I murmur as ice travels down my spine. I know where this story is going. "You . . . were in the car wreck with them."

I say the words softly, and I don't ask it as a question. I know she was. I can see it on her desperately pained face. She nods, and a sob rips from her chest.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," she whimpers. "I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

I can't take it anymore. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her close. She collapses against me, gripping my t-shirt in her fist as she cries and howls with grief and apology. I kiss her hair and shush her gently. I hold her as tightly as I can, rubbing my hand up and down her spine as her chest and back lift and drop with each heaving breath.

"I've got you," I tell her. "You're all right."

"Eleven years ago," she gasps. "Eleven years ago today, I killed my parents and my baby."

"No," I whisper. "Jesus. You didn't kill them, Bella."

She lifts her head from me. Her wet, tear stained face shatters my heart.

"I _did_, Edward. Don't you see? If I hadn't been at the clinic, been with Royce, been such a spoilt, ungrateful bitch, they wouldn't have died. They would be alive, happy! They wouldn't have been driving that freeway, that particular day, that exact moment if it wasn't for me!" She pushes her fingers hard against her chest. Her voice quietens as if the words have passed her lips a thousand times. "I did it. I'm the guilty one. Everything I love and care for dies. Everything I love disappears or breaks because I _deserve_ that. I deserve nothing less."

"Hey," I snap, gripping her wrists. "That's not true."

"Edward," she moans. She stares at me. Her face crumbles. "I can't." She tries to pull away from me, but I hold her fast. "I can't feel what I do for you. I can't. I can't lose you, too."

"You're not going to lose me," I say firmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"And Shortcake," she whimpers. "I can't lose her. I love her so much."

I cup her face in my hands. "Stop, Bella," I urge. "_Please_. We're not going anywhere."

She wraps her small hands around my forearms and drops the weight of her head into my palms. My thumbs move across the apples of her cheeks, wiping at the torrents of tears. She's exhausted. Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, I move backwards on the sofa, bringing her with me, holding her against my chest. She nuzzles into me, hiccoughing her emotions back. I hum to her as I do to Shortcake when she cries.

It's not long before we both drift off to sleep.

=DitD=

I awake with the smell of berries in my nose. I open my eyes slowly. Bella is still on top of me, moulding her soft curves against my hard lines. I realise it's her hair that smells so delicious. It's deep and lush. I take a slow, lingering breath. I look across to the clock on the wall. It's one o'clock.

"Do you have to go and get Shortcake?" Bella's voice is thick from sleep but calmer than it was before.

"Not yet," I reply, pushing my chin against my chest so I can look down and see her better.

"Can I come with you when you do? I'd like to see her."

"Of course."

I lie with Bella, twirling a piece of her hair between my thumb and forefinger, loving her weight and closeness.

"Can I ask you something?" I gauge gently.

"Anything."

"Do you want to marry Marcus?"

She becomes very still against me. "I used to. When we first got together, but . . ."

I wait. No answer. "But?"

She lifts her head from my chest and looks at me. "Now I've forgotten the reasons why we were together in the first place."

I shrug. "And what reasons were those?"

"I loved him."

I swallow. "You don't anymore?"

Her index finger trails across my chest. "We're two very different people, Marcus and I. When we first met, I thought he was what I wanted, who I should be with. His father, Aro, was good friends with Phil. After Phil died, and I went to Harvard, he gave me my first job. He looked after me, helped me work my way up. He was like a father to me." She shrugs. "Marcus just . . . fit."

I frown, disliking her reasoning. The idea that she started her relationship with Marcus because it was the right thing to do, makes my teeth grind. It's becoming clearer by the minute that she's worked tirelessly to become the lawyer her parents wanted her to be, to make up for her mistakes. As proud as they would undoubtedly be of her, it's blatantly obvious she's unhappy. "Do you enjoy being a lawyer?"

She smiles fondly for the first time. I realise, as I see it spread across her face, how much I've missed seeing it.

"I do," she answers honestly. "I really do."

I sigh and glance towards the paintings on her wall. As much as her answer is a relief, she didn't answer my question about loving Marcus, and her vague answers about being with him bother me more than they should. The crushing disappointment on my chest makes it hard to breathe. Bella's fingers find my chin and turn me back to face her.

"What?" she asks softly. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"That you—you can feel whatever _this_ is." Her hand moves tentatively to the hair that hangs down on my forehead. When she realises I won't stop her, her fingers run through it. Her nails scratch my scalp deliciously, making my eyes roll back into my head. Her mouth moves to my cheek. "You're so beautiful." She breathes heavily against my skin, making my stomach tighten and my cock twitch.

"I feel it," I answer in a low, hungry voice. "I do." I let my hands wander down her back, whispering over her ass. Christ. Her ass is perfection. The memory of her black lace panties makes me impossibly harder. She shifts above me, stealing my breath, and I lift my palms from her, dropping them at my sides. "But we can't do this, Bella."

I open my eyes and look at her. Her face is solemn, but I know she understands. She tries to smile, but it falls quickly.

"It's not fair," I add, while silently acknowledging that I'm not good enough for her. "It's not fair on either of us."

"I know," she whispers.

"You need to decide what you want with Marcus before we can," I gesture at the space between us, "find out whatever this is."

She nods and drops her chin onto my sternum. Her large brown eyes stare at me, filling my body with a desire so ferocious I can barely fucking contain it. The words are out before I can stop them. "I want you," I murmur. "And I know I shouldn't."

"Why?"

I rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers, breaking her spell on me. I sit up slowly, holding her so she doesn't fall back. I shift away from her and rub my face.

"I'm not . . . you deserve more," I say.

She scoffs, and my eyes snap to hers. "After what I've just told you about myself, you truly think that?"

I scowl. "So what? Because I'm a lowly fucking stripper I'll do because you don't think you deserve better?"

I'm up out of my seat and storming back into the kitchen before she can say a word. I hear her small feet thump against the wood floor behind me.

"Edward!" she calls. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I put my mug in the sink, leaning over it, and place my palms on its edge. I drop my head and try to remember how to breathe. My mind whizzes so fast I can't keep up, and my blood boils with a mixture of rage and misery. Bella's hand touches my shoulder.

"Edward," she mutters. "That's not what I meant. Please. You must know that."

I turn around slowly. I know she didn't mean it, but my head is up my ass, and I'm being a touchy son of a bitch. I can't forget the words she said to me last night despite how drunk she was. I can feel them in the back of my throat, heavy and obstructive.

"Stop," Bella says suddenly. "Whatever you're thinking. Stop."

I lift my hands to my waist and let them drop again, defeated. "I'm a stripper, Bella." I say the words quietly. "I take my clothes off for a living. How can you want me? What can I offer you?"

"What can you . . ." She takes a step towards me. Her face is open and beautiful. "Edward, you are the most passionate, caring man I have ever met. You don't see what I see. I see you with Shortcake. I see how you love her, adore her, how good a father you are. You worry, you care, and you look after everyone, including me." She places a hand on my cheek. "You are a very special man, Edward Cullen. I saw you dance last night—"

"Don't," I plead, shaking my head. I don't want to hear it. I know what she saw, and I hate it.

"You dance like no one I've ever seen," she continues earnestly. "You look—you're spectacular. The way you move . . . you took my breath away."

I nod, speechless. "And then the girl."

She shrugs, and a mischievous smile creeps across her lips. "All I can say about that is I was ridiculously jealous, and I'd have paid triple what she did."

I'm sure my mouth pops open. I snort and clamp my hands to my face. "Jesus," I mutter into my palms.

She laughs lightly, and the sound is fucking wonderful. "Don't sell yourself short, Edward," she says softly. "I won't let you."

I look back at her and smile tenderly. "Okay."

I know there is so much to say, so many things to discuss. I have a million more questions and a million more to think about, but I'm too tired. My body is tense with exhaustion, and I just want to be with my daughter.

"I need to go and get Shortcake," I say, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "You comin'?"

She smiles. "I wouldn't miss it."

**Holy plot thickens, Batman!**

**This has either answered all your questions or created more. Either way, there's plenty to come.**

**Thank you for your never-ending patience and support. It means the world, especially when there can be so much poison in this fandom. Your encouragement keeps me going. Cheers.**

**Love to Purelyamuse for her time and mad grammar skillz.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


	16. Chapter 15

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Oh my darling I must, I must confess**

**This can't be love, no I am just a man possessed**

**And so the tide has turned to day**

**We can turn and walk away**

The drive to Mama Esme's is quiet. Bella doesn't say much but neither do I. Truthfully, I'm happy enough to have her so close. The more time I spend with her, the more I realise just how much I missed her while she was away. I glance at her. Her face is turned towards the soft afternoon sun. Her eyes are closed and a small smile pulls at her lips. The sun etches her profile in gold. She looks exquisite.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask softly.

She keeps her eyes closed and lifts her shoulders. "It's a sunny day. I love it when it's cold, but the sun shines. I was hoping my mom is somewhere as beautiful as this. I know she will be. With Leah."

Her words are like a fist around my heart. An image of my own mother, beautiful, young, and healthy flashes through my mind. My fingers fidget, wanting to reach out to Bella, to tell her I understand her pain, but I grip the steering wheel harder instead.

I have to keep an emotional distance. I'm feeling too much too fast for this woman, and I have no business to.

She is someone else's.

She has too much to figure out.

I'm not good enough for her.

The reasons—as few as there are—are profound. Despite Bella's assurance that I'm more than a guy who strips for strangers, I'm unable to shake off the heavy discomfort her words have left. During our morning together, I've started thinking about doing something better with my life. Arguably, I should have done that the minute I knew about Shortcake. I realise I'm a fucking fool.

I think about the camera Bella gave me for Christmas—the one I have taken to carrying everywhere—and the pictures I've taken of my daughter asleep, laughing, sitting on my lap. I wonder if giving me such a gift was Bella's way of showing me there is more I can do. I haven't done art or photography seriously for years, but I still hold deep affection for it. Then there's the Wolf Pack. They rehearse as much as they can. I know I've neglected Jake and the boys terribly. Luckily, they understand. They dance in the studio I rent. Another option would be to make that a full time venture, open it up to more dance groups. I could even teach.

My mind begins to tick over, considering and imagining.

There are other options. Nevertheless, the thought of leaving Eclipse makes my stomach twist with unease. A stirring of ridiculousness flickers under my skin. Ridiculous or not, Eclipse is all I've known for over ten years. It's been my constant, my escape, my release. The idea of walking away from it is . . . terrifying.

We pull up outside Mama's house and enter the front door just as Carlisle walks down the hallway from the kitchen, holding Shortcake in his arms. My whole body immediately relaxes. She's wide awake and looks beautiful in tiny blue jeans and a pink sweater. Mama has even attached one of the clips Bella got her for Christmas to her hair. I hurry over to them both, beaming.

"Hey there, beautiful girl," I coo, plucking her gently from Carlisle's arms. I kiss her cheek once, twice, three times, smelling my family all over her. "I missed you," I murmur against her skin. I did. I miss her every time I leave her. I can't explain it other than to say it's as if part of me is missing when we're seperated. She nuzzles into my neck, and I hum against her head. Her hair smells of cookies, and I breathe as much of her in as I can. I suddenly realise which part is missing when she's away from me; it's my heart.

Bella appears at my side, smiling. She places a hand on Shortcake's back. "She's grown so much since I saw her last."

I pass my daughter over, watching with rapt eyes as Bella clutches her tenderly, placing kisses across her forehead. Now that Bella has told me about her loss, I look at her with Shortcake in an entirely different way. I know now why she was so wary at first; she didn't think herself deserving of sharing joint custody, of being so close to her sister's daughter. She didn't want to get too close for fear of losing her. Of losing me.

I push my hands into my pockets and watch them. Shortcake smiles in her adorably crooked way, and Bella laughs. She hugs her close and closes her eyes. She whispers softly in my daughter's ear. It's such a loving, private moment I look away.

"Where's Mama?" I ask Carlisle. "I thought she was taking Shortcake out."

"Work," he replies, watching Bella with a smile. "They called her in." He looks at me with bright eyes. "She was certainly annoyed about cancelling her show-off-the-granddaughter date."

I laugh. "I bet."

His gaze stays on me a touch longer than is comfortable. I know he sees the tired lines on my face. He doesn't miss anything. "You okay?"

I nod and shift my weight from one foot to the other. "Sure."

"Rough night?"

I glance at him and shake my head. "No more than usual."

"Okay," he murmurs, not convinced. "What are your plans for the day?"

I shrug. "Well, the sun is shining. I was thinking of taking Shortcake and Bella down to the harbour. Maybe get a late lunch."

Bella's head snaps to me. "Really?"

I smile. "Why not? Unless you need to be somewhere, with it being . . . you know." The words parents and anniversary hang silently between us. I have no idea whether she needs to visit a grave or if she has some sort of routine on this day every year.

Understanding my uncertainty, Bella's fingers flex, clutching Shortcake that much tighter. "No," she replies quietly. "I don't have anywhere to be."

"Lunch it is," I say.

Carlisle pats me on the shoulder. "Sounds great."

=DitD=

We arrive at the harbour an hour later. The sun is low in the sky, and the air if frigid, but it's beautiful. I push the stroller, which contains Shortcake, wrapped up like a damned taco with Bella at my side. We walk without saying much, despite the invisible wall of words that stands between us. I have so much I want to ask her. I want to know about her life after her parents died. I want to know how she and Leah dealt with their loss. I want to know how she coped with her guilt and why she still holds herself so accountable for such a tragic accident. I want to know if she really will finish things with Marcus, whether she'll take the job on the other side of the country.

Bella's arm bumps gently against mine. "You know you can ask me whatever you want."

I smile and release an anxious breath of laughter. "Am I that obvious?"

She shakes her head. "Not that much."

I hesitate, worried about upsetting her further. "I have lots of things I want to ask, Bella," I confess.

"Then ask," she answers gently. "I want to be open and honest with you, Edward. Don't be afraid."

I look at her and sigh while my brain flits through all of my questions like a spinning roulette table. "Were you badly hurt in the accident?"

I haven't really had time to think about how injured she was in the wreck, which took so much from her. Truthfully, the thought of her being involved in something so terrifying, so dangerous, causes a burst of protectiveness to occur in my stomach.

She looks down at her feet as we continue walking towards a small restaurant. "Yes," she answers plainly. For a moment, I resign myself to that being her only response. "I had a broken hip, femur, three ribs." She looks out towards the boats. "Shattered pelvis. I had a bleed from my pancreas . . . my uterus."

My body goes cold, and it's not from the sharp wind that whips around us.

She clears her throat. "I was in the back of the car. The truck hit us side on and pushed us towards the central reservation, which we hit. Head on. I was trapped for an hour before they cut me out. I don't remember much. I passed out from losing so much blood."

My throat tightens at the solemn tone of her voice. "God, I'm sorry," I croak.

"Me too," she whispers, pushing her hands deeper into the pockets of her winter coat.

We head towards a small nautical themed restaurant and make our way inside. It's lovely and warm, and I shrug out of my coat and hoodie, placing them on the back of my seat. I peer into the stroller to see Shortcake fast asleep. I adjust her blanket so she doesn't get too warm and reach for a menu. Bella sits opposite me and orders a juice. I order a beer. Once the server has gone, we sit, saying nothing, catching cautious glances at each other. I stare at her hands on the table and find myself needing to reach out and place mine against them.

It's ridiculous. I'm behaving like a virgin on prom night. I'm self-conscious and fidgety. I'm driving myself fucking crazy. I laugh humourlessly and shake my head.

"What?" Bella asks concerned.

"Nothing," I assure her. "I'm just an idiot."

I freeze when Bella's hand cups mine. "No, you're not."

My eyes stare at our hands together. Unable to stop them, my fingers find the gaps between hers. They settle perfectly, as if they were always meant to be there. Her skin is warm and soft. Like her lips. I clear my throat as memories of our kisses assault my mind.

"What are you thinking?" She asks, dipping her head to catch my eye.

I shake my head and smile uneasily. "You wouldn't want to know." I glance up briefly to see her cheeks redden. I let my thumb ghost over her knuckle.

I sit back when the waitress brings us our drinks, suddenly conscious of how close Bella and I have moved towards one another. We order our meals—two burgers, and fries—and settle back into the heavy, suffocating silence that has enveloped us since we left Carlisle.

Bella is the first to break. "Please, Edward, ask me. I have so much I want to say to you, but I have no idea where to start." Her laugh is nervous. "Help me out here."

I take a deep breath and ask her again about the accident. Call it morbid curiosity, but it seems like the most obvious place to start—the beginning. I learn that she was in hospital for two weeks, sedated and healing. She had pins in her hips and pelvis and part of her spleen removed. Her eyes become glassy and her lip disappears into her mouth when she speaks about her more intimate injuries. She was lucky she didn't have to have her entire womb removed. Instead, she was left with one ovary and the warning that she may never be able to have children naturally again.

I look down at Shortcake. My heart fucking aches.

"They held off the funeral until I was released from hospital," Bella tells me before sipping her drink. "It was . . . awful. Leah was a mess. We'd barely spoken. She'd visited me in hospital, of course, but her anger was too much for both of us. I deserved it, I knew, but I missed my sister.

"With no other family and with us both being under eighteen, we were placed with child services. Leah asked that she be sent to a separate family. They argued that it wasn't the 'done thing,' but I told them it was fine as long as I was told where she was. We were placed within two miles of one another. I wrote her letters, called her. She said little. I couldn't expect any more. Our family was destroyed because of my selfishness, my mistakes."

"Bella," I whisper. I reach for her again but am stopped by the waitress bringing our food.

"So you hardly spoke again?" I ask, once we're alone.

Bella shrugs. "Once we were both eighteen and we began college, we became more like acquaintances than sisters. We sent birthday cards, Christmas cards. She sent me a congratulatory card when I graduated from Harvard, but we were never the same." She looks at Shortcake, and her face takes on a wistful, far away expression.

For a split second, I think about Alice and how my life would be without her. I stop the thought dead immediately when I realise how much it would kill me. I adore my baby sister. I could never be without her, especially after the loss of our mother when we were so young. We're two halves of the same coin. She knows me inside and out and loves me regardless. She's needed me as much as I've needed her, and we've gotten through the hardest things two people can ever go through together.

No. My life wouldn't be complete without Alice.

With that thought, I start to appreciate that Bella has lost more than I could ever imagine. Sitting in front of me, tired, yet still beautiful, I begin to slowly understand what it has taken for her to get to where she is.

"And then you met Marcus," I murmur, needing to change the subject. Obviously, it's not the first subject I'd choose, but my inquisitiveness about the asshole is undeniable.

She keeps her eyes on her plate as she unfolds her napkin and places it on her lap. "Yes. We met through my job at Volture."

She's told me part of the story before. How she worked for Aro Volture who gave her a job, having known her stepfather, Phil.

"He was a couple of years older than me," she adds. "Had more experience, and he showed me the ropes."

I grip my knife. I just bet he fucking did. My inappropriate possessiveness doesn't so much surprise me as it does anger me. I already have too many feelings invested in Bella, and I have to step off. I need to give us both the space we need to figure just what the hell is going on between us. I take a giant bite out of my burger in an effort to keep my opinions about Marcus at bay.

Bella continues. "At the age of twenty five, working for an incredible law firm, living a life I knew my parents would be proud of, Marcus became everything I wanted." Bella's gaze meets mine, and the sadness in it pierces my chest. "I fell in love with him quickly. I fell in love with what we had, what we were together."

"And what was that?" I ask. My voice is quiet, rough.

"We were the perfect lawyer couple, powerful and envied." She lifts a forkful of fries to her mouth.

I stare at her, confused. "That's what you wanted? To be envied?"

She nods her head slowly. She swallows. "I did. I wanted to make my parents proud. To show the people who knew them that I could be as good as them, as happy and successful in all areas of my life."

"And now?"

Her shoulders drop at the same time her eyes do. She stares at the table as if it has the answers to life itself. "We want different things. I'm not happy with him anymore. Now I want to be happy for me."

The relief that courses through me when I hear her words is incredible. I run a hand through my hair. "That's good," I say softly. "You can't live your life for anyone but yourself, Bella."

She pins me with a firm look, but her voice is gentle. "I have been happy in my life, Edward. I need you to know that. I've been so lucky to have been given the opportunities I have, to know the people I do and to be loved and cared by them."

She licks her lips. "I'm just . . . I just need to be someone different now."

I frown. "Different how?"

She shrugs and tucks the loose hair behind her ears. "Not what people expect. I'll always feel guilty and responsible for what happened to my parents, but I also feel I've proven myself by becoming a great lawyer."

I nod. "You are a great lawyer, Bella." If she argues in court the way she argues with me, I know she's fucking phenomenal. "But is that enough for you?"

She glances towards my daughter and smiles. "I thought it was."

I sigh and rub my napkin across my mouth before dropping it ungracefully onto the table. "What is you want, Bella?" I try to hide the hope in my voice. I'm not sure I succeed.

She presses her lips together and closes her eyes. "I want to take that job in California."

Well, fuck.

That wasn't exactly the answer I was hoping for. I drop back into my seat. "Okay."

She opens her eyes and looks at me in a way that makes my heart thump hard against my ribs. I'm mute. My head is spinning with things I want to say, things I know I shouldn't say, while my chest feels as though a hole has been punched into the centre of it.

"I want . . . to be with you, Edward," she whispers. "I want to be with you and Shortcake."

I laugh humourlessly despite the prickle of warmth that her words carry up my neck. "But you want to take a job a million miles away?"

She nods. "I need to prove to myself that I can do this."

"Do what?" My tone is sharp, but I'm . . . upset.

"I got my job at Volture because Aro knew Phil. I met Marcus because he was Aro's son. I seem to have been given so much. I've worked hard. I do work hard, but it's always been with the help of others."

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling cold.

"I appreciate everything those people have done for me," she murmurs. "But I need to do something on my own. I need to live my life for me, no one else"

I push my teeth into my lower lip and clasp the bridge of my nose as she fires my words back at me. I'm being a selfish prick. I know. But I can't help it. I don't want her to go anywhere. I want her here with Shortcake and me. I want to try and work out what we have together, what we could have together. I want to kiss her some more. Dammit, I want to kiss her everywhere.

"You think I'm being selfish." She doesn't ask me.

I shake my head. "I'm trying not to." It's the most honest answer I can give her.

She sits forward in her seat, our meals forgotten. "Do you know how much you and Shortcake mean to me?"

"No," I answer quickly. "I don't."

She doesn't flinch at the sharpness of my words. "You mean more to me than you could possibly imagine." Her face flushes beautifully. "I think about you when I'm not with you. I miss you when we're not together. I dream about you."

The brown of her eyes darkens as it does when I kiss her. I can't breathe. "Oh."

"Getting on that plane to California will be one of the hardest things I will ever do, but I need to do it." Her voice implores me to understand. I try, but my selfish need for her stops it. "I will . . . miss you both so much."

"And Marcus?" I ask, hating the jealousy that laces my question.

She releases her grip on me. "Marcus and I need to have a long conversation." She rubs her hands down her face as if the very thought of it exhausts her.

"But you're going to finish. . ." I trail off with a long exhale, unable to finish my sentence. I'm starting to sound like a whiny bitch, and I hate it.

The tips of Bella's fingers reach back across the table towards me. "Yes," she replies. "I will finish things with him."

My eyes widen. "You will?"

She nods. "But I have to do it in person." I open my mouth to argue, but she shakes her head. "I owe him that much, Edward."

Torn between elation and frustration I finally place my hand over hers. The touch is light, but the emotions behind it are heavy as fuck on my shoulders. I look up at her and try to smile. I'm not sure I'm entirely successful. "And when you come back from California?"

She sighs. "When I come back I'd like to find out what this is." She squeezes my hand. "I know I shouldn't ask you. I have no right to. I have done nothing to warrant your trust in me and how I feel about you. About this. But if I did—ask, I mean. If I asked you to wait for me to come back, would you?"

From an outsiders point of view, I imagine my response is like that of a rabbit caught in headlights. Her question, as wanted as it is, catches me entirely off guard. This is serious shit. Am I ready for that? Do I want that? I have feelings for Bella. I can't deny that. They run deep and scare the fuck out of me, but would I wait for her? Could I? Am I willing to put all my faith in the chance that she'll come back and we'll live happily ever after?

She takes my hesitation as a no and begins to pull back. I grab her hand quickly, holding her tightly.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I shouldn't have asked you that. I'm out of order. I'm sorr—"

"Bella," I say gently. I lift her hand to my mouth and place a soft kiss on her palm. She smells of almond soap and fresh air. I'll miss that smell more than anything else. "If you tell me that you'll come back to me, and only me, after twelve weeks," I breathe, "I would wait."

Her lips lift into the most gorgeous smile. "You would?"

I nod. "I can't not find out, Bella," I confess. "I need to know what this is between us." I would be a fucking fool if I let her go without trying to discover what we have. And I want to. I want to discover everything about her, inside and out.

"Me too." She places her free hand to her chest and tries to catch her breath. She looks as though she may cry. "Thank you."

=DitD=

We leave the restaurant shortly after I've fed a whining Shortcake and Bella has changed her, and we make our way back down the harbour. With the weight of our previous conversation apparently lifted from both of us, Bella tells me about her being in therapy since her parent's deaths. Hearing this is not a surprise. In fact, it's a huge relief. She's had such a harrowing life. Apparently, her therapist thinks the move to California will be a great one. I want to smack the therapist in the mouth.

As she tells me more about her life with the Volture firm. I understand how wrapped up and protected Bella's been. They have looked after her, guided her, and encouraged her. Years ago, when she was alone and riddled with guilt and grief, I can see why it would have fit. Now, as I look at her and see a stunningly vibrant, independent woman, I grasp what going across the country will give her. Her life with Volture was about proving something to her parents, to Leah. About gaining forgiveness, about repentance. This is about proving something to herself.

The job, she tells me, is with a large multi-million dollar corporation who are trying to merge with some other big ass corporation. She tries to explain it to me, and I listen, but I don't really get it. I just like seeing her talk so animatedly, so passionately about her work, even though she's leaving in three weeks.

"Do we need to talk about the custody agreement?" I ask cautiously, as we stand looking out towards the water. Having joint custody of Shortcake, I'm curious whether Bella's leaving for twelve weeks will affect Leah's wishes. I notice her stiffen beside me. "It's just we're meant to live close to each other."

Bella turns, leaning back against the railing. Her eyes stay on the ground. "I spoke with Leah's attorney," she says softly. "She said that my leaving is okay, with it being temporary and all. Because it's employment the rules are a little different."

I nod slowly. As selfish as it is, I hoped there would be a rule in the Will that stated Bella would have to stay. I turn from the amazing harbour view and mirror her pose. In my periphery, I see Bella move towards me. She places her hand on my forearm.

"Are you okay with that?" Her voice is quiet, nervous.

I smile tightly. "Of course I'm not okay, Bella." I look directly at her. "You're leaving."

Her eyes drop at the same time her hand does and her shoulders sag. I immediately feel like a self-centred prick. I lift her chin with my fingers. "I don't want you to go for purely selfish reasons," I explain gently. "But I get why you need to do this. I do. If Leah's attorney says it's okay, then it's okay with me." I shrug and smile a little easier. "Shortcake will be here when you get back, just like I will. Besides, bicoastal parenting is cool, right?"

She smiles and breathes a large sigh. "Thank you."

I take my hand from her chin and push it into my pocket before the urge to grab and kiss the shit out of her overwhelms me completely. The uneasy cloud that'd surrounded us lifts gradually, and Bella begins to tell me more about California. I say I've never been and she tells me I'd love it. If I was there with Bella, I've no doubt I would.

As Bella talks about her wish to take Shortcake to Disneyland one day, I discreetly pull my camera out of my daughter's bag and snap a couple of shots. Bella doesn't notice the first one I take of her, but she sees the second. She laughs and slaps my arm, but I know the photographs of her will be perfect. I do it again, capturing her, against the water backdrop of the harbour, her hair whipping around her face. I wish she'd take it down so I could see it in its full windblown glory.

I drop the camera from my eye. "Why do you always wear your hair up?"

She glances towards the ground and licks her lips. "In the accident, I suffered a trauma to my head. It left a large scar, where the hair didn't grow back. You can only see it when I wear it down. I don't like people seeing it."

I nod, not knowing what else to say.

"I have a lot of scars." She sighs. She gestures with a wave of her hand around her stomach. "On the lower part of my body." She looks up at me, and all I see is panic and nerves. I know where her thoughts have gone because mine are there too. I'm thinking of her naked and glorious beneath me.

I stop at the side of her and reach for her hand. "You're beautiful, Bella," I tell her. "Every part of you." She looks away. I cup her cheek gently, turning her back to me.

"You know, my mom had to have several operations to get rid of the cancer," I mutter, feeling the familiar tightening in my throat whenever I talk about my mother. "They left large red scars on her chest and throat. She always told me and my sister not to be scared of them that the scars proved to everyone just how strong she was." I let my fingers dance down across Bella's skin. "Never be ashamed of them. They show people what you survived. That _you_ are a survivor."

One minute she is standing in front of me, the next Bella is against me, kissing me in a way that makes the blood thunder in my ears. Regaining my balance, I moan into her mouth and wrap my arms around her. I lift her as my tongue delves deeply into her mouth. She sucks on it, and I nearly lose my damned mind. Her fingers tangle in my hair and hold me so closely I can barely breathe.

I kiss her back as if my life depends on it. I kiss her to tell her I will wait for her. I kiss her to tell her that I think I may be falling in love with her and I'm terrified about what that means.

Our kisses slow down until we're forehead-to-forehead, gasping and breathless. "I'm sorry," she croaks.

"Don't be," I reply. "I'm not."

"It's just—I'm never more alive than when I'm kissing you," she whispers.

I laugh and peck at her mouth. "Good. Alive is good."

"Promise we'll talk every day I'm away," she says. She opens her eyes and stares pleadingly. Her vulnerability staggers me.

I rub my nose against hers. "I promise."

"And you'll send me pictures of Shortcake every week."

I smile and nod. "I will."

"Okay." She kisses me softly. "Jesus. I miss you already."

Funny, I was thinking the exact same thing.

**Holy hold the tears, Batman!**

**Thanks for your patience, guys. I truly appreciate it. Your love for this little fic still staggers me. Cheers.**

**Much love and snuggles to Purelyamuse for being a superstar grammar princess. She helps make DitD shine.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	17. Chapter 16

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**You're readin' up baby, to chapter three  
It tells you how good our love could be  
You're readin' on to chapter four  
Well I kiss you once and I want some more**

"Jake!" I shout. "Lift your shoulders. No. Quil! Seriously, dude, you're not carrying a fucking house on your back. Straighter!"

Instead of doing as I instruct, he rolls his eyes. Irate, I slam my finger against the pause button on the stereo, halting the Hip Hop music filling the dance studio. The four of them—Quil, Jake, Seth, and Embry—stand slowly from their dance positions and glance warily in my direction.

"What part of straight back do you not understand?" I ask incredulously. No one answers. Instead, they look everywhere but at me. They're all exhausted. "This is serious shit, fellas," I continue regardless. "This is the State Freestyle Championships. This could be_ huge_ for you. Don't you get that?"

"Yeah," Jake snaps. "We get it, Edward. On top of school and work, we've been rehearsing at least five hours a day straight for two weeks. Just . . . ease off, man, alright?" He kicks at the floor like a petulant child, and I can barely hide my fury.

"Ease off?" I bark. "If you want to be the best you have to train the hardest, Jake. It's that simple." I throw the stereo remote on top of the speaker. "You asked me to help you; I'm helping. You want to do this alone? Without my guidance? Fine. I can walk out that door."

My words are harsh, and, whether they know it or not, I don't mean them. I would never leave my boys when they need me. We've been through too much together. It's tough love, but someone has to do it. The four of them look apologetic and tired. The silence in the room, however, is deafening. I shake my head.

"Two minute break," I say quietly. "Get some water, some air, whatever. Then we start again." I point at Quil and Jake. "And you two _will_ be better."

There is plenty of murmuring and loud sighs as they grab their hoodies and cell phones and head out the door. I watch them as they leave knowing, deep down, it isn't they who have me so wound up. I glance at the clock on the wall for the millionth time. It's four-thirty. I grind my teeth together and run two very agitated hands through my hair.

Right now, Bella will be on her way to the airport to pick Marcus up.

It's been two weeks since Bella told me she was going to take the temporary job in California, since she told me she was going to finish things with her almost fiancé so she can be with me. Since then, things between us have been blurrier than ever. We've spent a lot of time together. Sometimes at her place, sometimes at mine. She takes Shortcake when I'm working and we share gentle, chaste kisses, longing glances, and occasional touches. I can't deny the contact with her—no matter how fleeting or sporadic—drives me insane.

Ironically enough, I've begun to wish we'd never started the whole touching, kissing thing. At least then, I wouldn't know how good she feels. What you don't have, you don't miss, right?

But I _do_ know how she feels. I know how soft her skin is, how sweet her mouth is and that her tongue tastes of heaven. All I want is to lose myself in her, to have her in all the ways I fantasise about every time she leaves my apartment, but we can't. Not until she's free of Marcus. I may dislike the bastard, but I have morals.

I check my cell, but there's no new message from Bella. She's ending their relationship while he's over from London. I have no idea how the guy will take it. Maybe he'll flip his shit. Maybe he'll become aggressive. I expressed my concern to Bella, and she all but laughed in my face. If the fucker knows what's good for him, he'll take it like a man and move on. Having said that, if Bella tried to leave me forever, I'm not sure I could let her. I rub my palm across my chest where a small ache has resided for the past fourteen days. Every time I think about her leaving to go to California, it niggles that little bit more. The whole scenario with Marcus is disgustingly bittersweet. Bella will finally be available to me, to be mine, yet she'll be leaving me for twelve weeks. The utter unfairness of it all is not lost on me one bit.

"Ed?"

I turn to see Jake fiddling with the string from the hood of his sweater.

"Hey, man," I say softly.

"You're a little angrier than usual. Is everything copacetic?" he asks.

I smile tightly and shake my head. "Not really."

"Is your baby girl okay? Can I help?"

I clap my hand to his shoulder and squeeze him in thanks. "Shortcake's fine. Amazing actually." I drop my hand and my eyes to the floor. "There's nothing you can do. But I appreciate it."

"Whatever you need."

I nod and sigh. "I'm sorry for being a prick."

He smiles widely. "Hey, no problem. You're just doing your thing, right?"

I laugh. "That's right." The other boys wander in, cautious and quiet. I smile. "Everything cool?" I ask.

They nod. "Yeah," Quil answers. "We're cool."

I clap my hands together. "Then let's do this."

=DitD=

"Have you heard from her?"

"No."

"What time did she pick him up?"

"Five."

Alice glances at her watch. It's eight-thirty. I haven't texted her in case she's still with Marcus. I'm not _that _much of an asshole. I don't want to throw an even bigger spanner into the works by rubbing the poor bastard's face in my lascivious intentions.

No. That's not true. My feelings for Bella run deeper than simply fooling around. Just how deep, however, is a question I've been avoiding since our day at the harbour.

Avoiding, denying, ignoring.

"Coda, stop pacing," Alice chides me. "Elizabeth is going to get dizzy and puke all the milk you gave her."

I freeze, my eyes darting to my daughter snoozing in my arms. She seems okay, but Alice is right. I'm driving _myself_ fucking crazy.

"What if he didn't take the news well?" I ask, nibbling on my bottom lip in worry.

Alice stands and gestures for me to pass Shortcake. "Of course he won't have taken the news well. No break up is good news."

She takes Shortcake and starts walking towards the nursery. Shortcake's been sleeping in the crib in her nursery for a week now. At three months old, she's sleeping six hours a night. Mama tells me that's impressive. I don't know. I'm just stoked I get decent shuteye every night. Alice places her down into the crib, and I marvel at how small she is snuggled in her blankets, surrounded by the cream rails of the crib.

Alice smiles down at her then moves out of the way, leaving me alone to say goodnight to my daughter. I place my palm against her belly, closing my eyes when I feel it lift with her soft breaths. I kiss the tips of my fingers and place them on her forehead, as has become our routine over the last seven days.

It definitely hasn't been easy having Shortcake in her own room. The first couple of nights, I was awake at every murmur and cough that emanated from the damned baby monitor. It's different than having her next to me or in her bassinet, although she'd more often than not sleep in my bed. Weirdly, it does feel considerably bigger without her in it.

"Dream sweet dreams, baby girl," I whisper. "I love you."

The sound of a heavy knock on my apartment door brings my eyes from Shortcake, and my heart begins to pound in my chest.

_Bella._

With the baby monitor in my hand, I hurry from the nursery into the apartment, catching Alice's wary stare before I toss it to her. I slide back the deadbolt, my face fighting the relieved smile that's threatening to take it over, but freeze when I open the door and see who's standing on the other side of it.

"Marcus," I croak. I swallow.

His dark eyes pierce me in a way I assume homicidal maniacs eye their victims. He's an imposing man in his suit, trench coat, and shiny shoes, but I can be too. I cross my arms over my chest, regrouping quickly, and stand up a little straighter. I clear my throat and frown.

"What are you doing here?"

The left side of his mouth lifts, as though he's snarling. "I came to speak with you," he answers quietly, annunciating every word clearly, purposefully, as only a lawyer could. His stare shifts to my sister, and my hackles rise. I shift, blocking his view.

"Why?" I ask, even though the sound of the word as it leaves my lips tells him I know the exact reason why he's standing at my door.

His eyes snap back to mine. "Is that a rhetorical question?"

I lick my lips and clench my teeth. I feel the tick in my jaw start to work over time. "No."

He exhales loudly and scratches his temple with his thumbnail. "Look, Cullen, are you going to let me in, or what?"

"That depends," I answer quickly.

"On what?"

"On whether or not my daughter is at risk with you here," I take a step forward, "Because, if that's the case, you can forget it."

His eyes narrow infinitesimally. "What kind of man do you think I am?" he asks incredulously.

The question hangs heavily between us, and I'm struck with the sudden, uncomfortable realisation that I don't know much about the man in my doorway. Least of all what kind of man he is. Sure, Bella's told me some things, but they're small fragments of a whole.

"I'm not here to put your daughter at risk," Marcus continues. "Like I said, I'm here to talk to _you_."

I sigh and glance back at Alice who looks equally as mystified by Marcus' presence. I turn back to him, "Fine." I step back, out of his way.

He dips his head and walks slowly into my apartment. I close the door gently and watch as he takes the place in. His eyes stop on my sister. "I'm sorry to intrude," he says casually.

Alice shrugs. "It's no problem. I was just leaving."

My stomach hits the soles of my shoes. She lifts her coat from the sofa and makes her way over to me.

"Where're you going?" I ask through tight lips.

"Home," she whispers. Her eyes are sympathetic. "You need to talk with him, Coda. He deserves that, and so do you. If you need me, call me." She kisses my cheek, glances back at Marcus, and leaves.

As the sound of the door closing echoes around my apartment, I stand, silent, wanting to tear the skin from my bones. Marcus turns to me.

"Your _friend_ didn't have to leave," he says scathingly.

"My friend is actually my sister," I shoot back, shoving my hands into my pockets.

He pulls his mouth so the corners turn down condescendingly, and nods. "I see. Forgive the assumption; with your profession, I guessed she was an acquaintance here for _other _reasons." Before I can reply, telling him where to shove his assumption, he lifts his hand and gestures towards the guitars on my wall. "Nice collection."

"Thanks." My temper is unravelling, as is my patience. I step forwards, hoping the movement will spur him on to explain to me just what the fuck he wants.

"I used to play a little," he adds, "when I was at college. When Isabella and I first met."

_Bingo._

At the sound of her name, my heart begins to fly. Not in the usual excited, butterfly kind of way, however, but in alarm. I want to know where she is. I want to know if she's alright. I want to know if there's a chance she'll ever be mine.

"I was always a Stones fan," he continues. "Isabella liked the Beatles."

He walks slowly around my apartment, viewing my artwork, my black and white photographs of Shortcake and me, of Shortcake on her own: sleeping, playing, in the bath. He stops when he sees the most recent one of my daughter. On canvas in a dark wood frame, it's a close up of Bella's nose touching Shortcake's. My little girl wrapped in Bella's arms, as she stands on the harbour, smiling, looking exquisite. The light behind them reflects off the water, just under Bella's chin, making them both seem like angels. I could spend hours staring at it.

"I should have known then we weren't compatible," Marcus mutters as he stares at it. He points towards the picture. "Did you take this?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

"It's good." He moves closer to it. "She looks beautiful."

"Bella _is_ beautiful," I snap defensively.

He turns back to me, smirking. "I was talking about your daughter."

My shoulders drop, and I evade his knowing stare. "Yeah . . . she is."

He nods minutely before glancing at his shoes. "I knew this would happen, you know. I told her from the beginning."

"You knew _what_ would happen?" I ask even though I have a horrible feeling I know where this is going.

"Her and you," he clarifies. "_Bella_."

He's calm, and, as a result, I'm anything but.

"She fought it, I'll give her that." He laughs humourlessly and gently kicks the toe of his shoe against the rug on my floor. I notice his gait isn't as straight and confident, as it had been when he arrived. The angry glint in his eye has also dulled. He appears despondent. As ridiculous as I know it to be, I feel sorry for him.

"I could hear it in her voice when she spoke about you," he says, glancing back at the photograph. "It was the same way she spoke about me once upon a time." He pins me with a glare. "It's the way she _should_ be talking about me now."

I exhale a long breath and take a tentative step towards him. "Look—"

He holds up his palm, halting my words. "Don't," he says, his voice low. "I only want to know one thing."

I nod once, nervously. "Shoot."

His eyes meet mine, and they're yet again murderous. "Did you fuck her?"

My mouth drops open with an audible pop before anger surges through me. "No," I reply sharply. "I haven't fucked her."

His hostile expression doesn't falter. "But you've kissed her. Touched her."

I grit my teeth together, my silence screaming the obvious answer. Marcus' eyes snap towards the ceiling. "Like I thought," he murmurs. He rubs a hand down the side of his face and sighs long and low, as though defeated. "I should kill you."

My eyes flit to the pockets of his trench coat, and I wonder fleetingly if he has a Glock or a really sharp fucking knife in one of them. I shift on my feet, all at once conflicted. I shouldn't feel embarrassed, but I do. I'm guilty and deserve Marcus' anger. I've kissed Bella. I've touched her. And I shouldn't have. She wasn't mine to touch. But the thing is, I wanted to. Dammit, I wanted to—_still_ want to. I care for her. I care for her a whole lot.

"Contrary to popular belief," I say through a dry throat. "I'm not an asshole." I cough out a sombre laugh. "At least, not anymore."

"Funny," Marcus retorts moving towards my side of the room. "Stealing another man's fiancée seems like a pretty asshole-like move."

I frown. "She didn't give you an answer. You weren't engaged."

His eyes widen minutely in what I can only presume is surprise. "But we would have been, if it wasn't for you," he counters.

"My understanding is your relationship was on its way out way before I appeared."

Marcus sneers. I pull my hands out of my pockets, as he advances slowly towards me.

"You understand nothing," he growls.

The straight-laced lawyer facade has dropped away, leaving a man who's livid and betrayed. He stops only two feet away from me. I'm uneasy. I can't deny it. I don't want this to end in a fight, despite knowing I deserve nothing less. I'd rather not have to resort to fisticuffs in my apartment, especially with Shortcake only down the hall, but I clench my hands anyway. If he throws the first punch, he'd better damn sure make it a good one.

Marcus's eyes travel over me disdainfully. "What can _you_ offer her?" he asks quietly.

I open my mouth to answer, but I don't have one. I shake my head and smile wryly. "I have no idea."

"You're a stripper," he all but spits out.

"Yes," I reply as prickles of shame and understanding of just how inadequate I am for Bella creep up my spine. "I am."

He shakes his head. "You knocked Leah up and didn't even know about it." His shoulders bunch. "You're a disgrace. You're nothing."

My nostrils flare, and I swallow the tsunami of defensive comebacks clawing up my throat, while the small voice in the back of my mind agrees with him unequivocally.

He steps closer. "You'll _never_ be good enough for her," he seethes.

My pulse pounds in my head. "I know."

His expression changes minutely, softening briefly before the fire returns. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

I dip my chin in agreement. "I understand, but I won't."

He observes me. For an endless moment, the only sound is the ticking of the stainless steel clock above my fireplace. "You're in love with her." He doesn't ask.

I look towards the floor. "I care about her." It's as close to the truth as I can possibly bear. The word love echoes through me, sinking into my bones, making my heart stammer.

"She's in love with _you_," he adds, and I suddenly feel dizzy. "It's written all over her. I saw it the night I turned up at her apartment and saw you two together. She denies it, of course. She told me she wants to have time on her own, to think, to do things for herself." He scoffs. "She seems to think this job in California will help her find whatever she's missing."

"She told you about the job?" I ask, surprised.

He nods. "Made out like it was the reason for her ending things, but I knew better."

I run an agitated hand through my hair. "For what it's worth," I murmur. "I didn't expect this to happen. I didn't go looking for it. I'm as surprised about all this as you are."

He looks at me askance.

"Okay," I concede. "Maybe not _as_ surprised, but I didn't mean for it to happen." I scratch my temple. "Truth is we hated each other when we first met."

He laughs unsmilingly and rolls his eyes. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

I shake my head. "No. I just don't want you to hate her because you think she had this plan to make you out to be an asshole. She didn't."

Unbelievably, I see the last of his fury drift away. He peers over his shoulder towards the photograph. "That's just it," he whispers. "I don't hate her. If only it were that easy."

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and walks around me towards the door. He stops with his hand on the handle. "I mean it, Cullen," he says firmly. "You fuck this up, and I'm coming for you. Make no mistake."

I stand up straight and look him dead in the eye. "I got it."

He pins me with a detestable stare before he opens my door and leaves. I slump against the back of the sofa, exhausted.

=DitD=

As worn out as I am, when I open my apartment door to see Bella standing on the other side of it thirty minutes later, the relief and levity that shoots through me is undeniable.

"Hey," she says softly, cautiously.

"Hey," I reply, taking in every inch of her. I've missed her. "Come here."

She walks to me, and I pull her to my chest, wrapping my arms around her tightly. I bury my nose in her hair that's up in a tight ponytail and try to regain any semblance of normality with every breath of her.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner," she mumbles into my sweater. "I had to speak to Aro. We were on the phone for nearly two hours."

I pull back a little and gaze down at her. I place my fingers under her chin and lower my lips to hers. She hums when our mouths meet and fists her hand against the waistband of my jeans. I open my mouth and exhale raggedly when she responds in kind. It's been too fucking long since I've kissed her this way. The last time was at the harbour. Her taste dances its way into me, sweet and perfect. Her tongue touches mine tentatively, and I'm instantly hard. My hands cup her face, as our tender kiss becomes desperate.

She's here, my heart whispers. She's here, and she's mine.

Curving her softness against me, eager and wanting, I could easily forget my conversation with Marcus, the embarrassment and guilt that accompanied his visit. As it is, I can't. Begrudgingly, I slow my mouth down, peppering hers delicately with kisses before pulling back.

"Marcus was here," I tell her.

Her eyes widen, and the hand she has placed on my shoulder grips tighter. "What?"

"He was here about a half hour ago."

Alarm ripples through across her face. "What happened?"

I close the door and lead her over to the couch. She doesn't release her hold on me, and I like it. We sit, and she searches my face with her large brown eyes. I explain to her what Marcus said—about his anger, his disgust, and his threats about what he'll do if I hurt her. I would never purposefully hurt Bella, but, honestly, I appreciated his warning. The only thing I leave out is the love part. Cowardice makes my throat close around the words. By the time I finish, Bella is clutching my hands in her lap, her thigh touching mine, tears filling her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I had no idea he'd come here."

I run the pad of my thumb across her cheek. "Hey, it's okay. He needed to say what he did. I get it. He's hurting. I respect him for doing it. He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know."

The chocolate of her irises flash with irritation. "Don't do that, Edward," she chastises. "We've talked about this. You're everything I want. Stop it."

I sigh and stare at our entwined hands. I lift them and kiss her knuckles. "Okay."

"He shouldn't have said that to you," she mutters. "He had no right."

I smile and bring her face to mine. "I'm a big boy," I tell her, letting my lips whisper across the corner of her mouth. "I can take it."

She sighs and closes her eyes. I don't need to ask how it went with Marcus. He told me enough, and she's here. That's all there is.

"So," I nip at her ear lobe, "you're young, free, and single now?"

She smiles against my cheek. "I am."

I glance at her hoping to see lust and want, but, instead, see heartbreak in her gaze. I'm immediately contrite, kicking my libido in the nuts. I'm a prick. I rub the tip of my nose against hers.

"Sorry," I say. "You've had a shitty day. I don't mean to crowd you. I'm just so happy you're here."

"Me too," she replies, kissing me softly. "And you're not crowding me. It's just . . ."

"You're sad," I finish for her.

She shifts next to me, removing her jacket, clearly guilty.

"It's alright." I wind my arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple. I sit back, pulling her with me. "I don't blame you for feeling the way you do. It must have been hard. You and Marcus have been together a long time, and—"

"But I don't love him," she interrupts quickly.

"I know," I murmur, remembering Marcus' words about her being in love with me. I hold her impossibly closer. "I know, but it's still difficult."

My calmness and acceptance shakes me. Despite hating every minute of her being with Marcus, it's hard to ignore the difficulty she's having with letting him go. I know I should feel something else, something along the lines of jealousy or anger. Nonetheless, to be together for so long, they must have been friends first, and I'm sure it's hard losing a friend as well as a relationship, no matter what feelings are involved.

I care for Bella deeply, and I don't like seeing her upset. And, if my understanding helps, then that's what I have to be: understanding. I kiss her hair and relax as her head rests under my chin, fitting perfectly.

"How's Shortcake?" she asks sleepily, winding the tip of her finger across my left nipple.

"She's fine," I answer. "She's missed you."

"I missed her too. I'll go in and see her before I leave."

"Bella?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you stay with me tonight?"

She moves to lift from my chest, but I hold her fast. "Not like that," I explain softly, sensing her panic. "I just want you near me. Is that okay?"

I have seven days left with her before she leaves, and I can't imagine I'll want her more than three feet away from me during that time. Now I know I'm one step closer to her being mine, I'm loathed to let her go at all.

Her lips press into the side of my neck, making my eyes roll back. "Okay," she murmurs.

Her small hand finds my cheek pulling my mouth gently to hers. I kiss her softly, allowing my tongue to glide over hers, teasing her lips, tasting her. She moans, and I immediately kiss her harder. My lips press hers, demanding, needing to be closer. She breathes into me, and I swallow it down greedily.

With my arm still wrapped around her, I gradually lower her onto the sofa, hovering over her, never taking my mouth from hers. She grips my hair and my neck ,and I know she wants me. That thought alone sets my spine on fire.

I try to keep my body from crushing her, but I can't stop my hips from pushing into her thigh. I grunt when my cock finds the friction it desperately needs. She gasps, feeling how hard I am for her, and plunges her tongue further into my mouth, clutching me closely as she moves me between her thighs.

I open my eyes and pull back, mourning the loss of her taste but needing to see that she's okay. She nods, telling me she's fine, and lifts her hips to meet mine. I groan and drop my forehead to her chest. _Jesus._ Between her jean-covered thighs, she's warm. So warm. I push against her again, catching her gasp between my lips.

"There?" I ask with a heavy, laboured breath.

"Yes."

I grip her thigh in my hand, and push it higher up, as I thrust, unable to extinguish the vision of her perfectly naked underneath me. I can't wait to feel her wet and craving. My mouth moves to her neck, and I lick, nibble, and suck. She moans my name, and I know if she keeps doing that I'll come. Slowly, I put my hand on her breast. Despite it being over her sweater, she still feels perfect to me. When I give her a gentle squeeze, her legs tighten around my waist, and her hips hunt for mine. She rubs and writhes under me like a cat, gasping and groaning as I give her what she clearly wants. My cock pushes and rubs her, and my stomach starts to clench.

"Tell me what you need," I mumble into her neck. "God, tell me."

"Don't stop," she whimpers. "Please. Don't stop."

So I don't. I drive with purpose, moaning deep in my chest when her grip on me increases. She arches her back, and I lick up the column of her neck. My cock aches, and my thighs burn with the need to disappear inside of her. The sofa creaks as I quicken my pace, grunting into her mouth and gripping her shoulders as my orgasm creeps up my back.

"I'm gonna come," I warn her.

"Fuck." She breathes the naughty word into my hair and moves with me, meeting every plunge and rise of my body against hers. "Me too."

"Get there," I plead, before the world tilts, lights explode behind my eyes and I come so hard I can't catch my breath. With my face buried into her shoulder, I call out her name and push until she cries out with me cursing and squirming.

I pant and swallow, trying not to think—while feeling the warmth of the come in my underwear—what an utter disgrace I am for dry humping Bella on my couch. I close my eyes when I feel her fingers scratch my scalp sensually.

"Christ, I'm sorry," I murmur, still catching my breath, unable to lift my head.

"What?"

"I'm so fucking sorry," I tell her. "I shouldn't have done that. You deserve better than being molested on a sofa—"

Her light laughter brings my head up. Her face is glowing. Sweat speckles the bridge of her nose and her forehead. She's glorious.

"Molested? Are you serious?" she asks with a cocked eyebrow. "Did I not make it clear how much I enjoyed that?"

"I know," I protest. "But I didn't want us to do that like this."

"Edward," she whispers, placing her fingers against my lips. "Stop worrying. I'm great. That was . . . so sexy. Please. I'm not as fragile as you think." She wriggles a little, making me hiss when she rubs my crotch. "It's been a long time since I felt that good."

I swallow and trail the tip of my finger down the side of her face. "Really?"

"Really." She closes her eyes when my finger meets her nose.

"You're beautiful," I tell her.

And she is.

She's so damned beautiful.

I kiss her forehead. "Be mine?" I murmur, unable to stop the words tumbling from my mouth.

She smiles. "I always have been."

**Holy dry humping is hot, Batman!**

**Next chapter, Bella will be on her way to California. Don't worry, chums. It'll be over before you can say reunion sex.**

**Much love to my beta goddess Purelyamuse who makes my chapters LOOK so much prettier. **

**Thanks so much for your continued patience, guys. Kisses and Oreos to all of you.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	18. Chapter 17

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Every moment that I think about you**

**Every day and every night without you**

**I can't survive**

**Love, take away the lonely days gone by**

**Make it every day for you and I**

"And then we'll go and see Mama Esme." I rub my hands across my hair and watch as the suds slide down my chest. "She's missed you."

Shortcake blinks up at me with large blue eyes and lifts the corner of her mouth in response. She clenches her fist and bats clumsily at the animals that swing across her lap. She coos and sticks her tongue out from her place in the chair I've put her in while I shower. I grin. She looks adorable in her pastel pink pants and cupcake sweater. Her hair is auburn and blonde and— like mine—curls at the back of her ears and on her forehead.

My heart bursts with love for her, despite the part of it that's missing. The part that's been in California for—I glance at the clock in my bedroom, through the bathroom door—twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes. _Christ._ I stare down at my naked self, making sure I'm still a man and haven't developed a vagina overnight. I need to get a grip.

Saying goodbye to Bella was heinous. I was nothing but helpless when she left my apartment yesterday—she wouldn't let me take her to the airport—telling me, assuring me between long promise-filled kisses and desperate hugs that she'd call, text, or email when she got there. She did.

The text simply read: _Here and fine. Missing you._

I won't lie. Five words have never made my insides feel quite so strange. The seven days we had together before she left were great. She spent a lot of time with Shortcake and me, having dinner and watching movies. We took days out, talking, and laughing. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much. She stayed over a few times. One time we fell asleep on the couch together. Otherwise, when I was working, she'd sleep in the spare room.

I desperately wanted her in my bed, but I never pushed.

We've touched more—stealing kisses and holding hands—but haven't taken it further than the dry humping escapade that I've done nothing but apologise for since. Bella's tried to placate me about it, but I know I crossed a line. As I told her repeatedly, she deserves more than a fumble and grope on my sofa. She tried to get me to do it again, damn her, but I resisted. Just. As much as I want to feel her again coming undone beneath me, soft and smelling incredible, I want to wait. Blue balls or not, I know Bella's worth waiting for.

My stomach clenches as it always does when I think of Bella. I wonder what she's doing, who she's with, if she's okay, and if she's thinking about me, too.

I glance at the clock again.

Twelve weeks can't go fast enough.

=DitD=

To: ECullen

From: ISwan

Sent: January 27th 7:02AM

Subject: Hi

Greetings from Cali! How are you? How's Shortcake?

I'm emailing you from my new computer, in my new office. It's very fancy and has an amazing view of the city. You'd be able to take some truly fantastic photographs here. I think you'd love it. It's warm, too. Well, warmer than Seattle, at least. I may have gone a little crazy with the winter packing. I'll have to find some time to shop.

My apartment is cosy, which I like. At least, I won't be rattling around in it even if it isn't home. Two of the partners, Liam and Siobhan, took me to dinner last night. I had a steak the size of Shortcake. You'd have been proud. Everyone seems nice, and they are making me feel very welcome, but there's a lot of work to do. I start on the case straight away. I'm looking forward to getting my teeth stuck into it all, but I hate that I'm so far away.

I haven't yet been here a full twenty-four hours, and I miss you both terribly. I feel like I've lost a part of myself. I want nothing more than to snuggle up with you while watching TV. I wish I'd brought one of your shirts. Maybe that would have been weird. I don't know.

Give Shortcake a kiss from me. I'll try and call later.

Yours,

Bella x

=DitD=

To: ISwan

From: ECullen

Subject: Re: Hi

Sent: January 27th 5:14PM

Hey there Cali Girl,

It was good to hear from you. Shortcake is fine. She stayed with Mama today while I rehearsed with Jake and the boys, and she's staying with Alice tonight while I work. I don't want to go to the club. I'm really not in the mood.

Anyway, your office sounds great, and I'm sure I'll visit California to take some pictures one day. Maybe we could go together? I bet Shortcake would love it. We could do the whole Disney thing. If you like, of course.

I know what you mean about feeling different. I'll be honest: I've felt lost today. Kind of in a daze. I keep expecting to see you or to hear you in my apartment, which is crazy. I've watched the clock all day. Now THAT's weird.

I wouldn't have minded you taking one of my shirts, you know. I kind of like that idea.

Oh, before I forget, have a look in the zipper part of your case. I left you a little something when you weren't looking.

Take care. Speak soon.

Edward x

Sent from my iPhone

=DitD=

_I can't get to the phone to call, so I thought I'd text. I'm still at the office. Are you on your way to work? B X_

Just arrived. You're working late on the first day? That sucks.

_Yeah. There's so much to do. I won't bore you with the details, but I can see why they brought me in. I'd rather be there with you. X_

Nah. You wouldn't. Mike is shaving. And not his face. It ain't pretty.

_Gross! How are you feeling now? You 'sounded' down in your email. Everything okay? X_

Yeah, I'm okay. Just thinking about my options. Eclipse is all I've known for so long, but I want more.

_As long as it's you wanting more for *you*. I want you no matter what you do._

Thank you. You just made my day.

_You're welcome._

I want you, too, you know.

_I know._

=DitD=

"Coda!"

I close my eyes in annoyance, blatantly ignoring Emmett as he shouts a third time. He appears in front of me as I continue putting gel through my hair. He's angry, but I can't find it in myself to care.

"Coda, you were meant to be on that stage ten minutes ago. What the fuck?"

I sigh indignantly and click my tongue. "Chill out," I tell him. "I'm nearly done."

"Ch—chill out?" he repeats in exasperation. "Get on that stage!"

He grabs at my bicep, and I shake him off, pinning him with a glare. His eyes narrow. "What's crawled up your ass and died?" he asks quietly, carefully.

"I don't need you screaming at me, Emmett," I tell him firmly. "Get off my dick."

I push past him and throw myself up the stairs taking two at a time. I've no idea why I'm so hostile. Well, that's not exactly true. I'm pissed because I want Bella to be with me, not in California. I'm mad because that makes me a selfish fuck, and she ought to have better. I'm mad because as much as dancing and stripping has been my life for so long, it now feels uncomfortable and heavy, like it doesn't fit anymore. It's scary, and I can't shake the anxiety that smothers my skin.

Behind the stage curtain, I exhale raggedly, jump on the spot, listening to the women clap and chant my name. I crack my neck and my back and try to compose myself.

Now I have to be Coda.

Now I have to do what I do best.

I nod at the DJ, and the lights go down. I breathe. I stretch my fingers and think of Bella.

She wants me no matter what I do.

=DitD=

_Edward, I found the pictures you put in my bag. Thank you. They're beautiful. The one of you and Shortcake is incredible. I'll keep them by my bed. They're a poor substitute until I come back to you. B X_

=DitD=

To: ECullen

From: ISwan

Sent: February 14th 9:22AM

Subject: Be my Valentine? Ten and a half weeks to go...

Morning,

I'm sorry we couldn't Skype last night. This case is kicking my ass. I'll definitely try to get on tonight. I need to hear your voice.

I hope you don't mind, but I texted Caius yesterday. I know you've been anxious about Eclipse, so I thought you and he could have a chat about your pictures. I hope you don't think I'm interfering. I just want you to be happy, and you're so talented, Edward. People should see your work. He has an exhibition coming up in June, and I think your work could be spectacular in it. I was thinking your photographs, but maybe you could submit your paintings as well.

I'll text you his number anyway, and you can make a decision. Thank you for the pictures of Shortcake. I have the one of you bathing her as my phone screen saver. She's grown so much in two and a half weeks. I showed Liam.

He says she's beautiful.

I told him she looked like her daddy.

Yours,

Bella x

=DitD=

To: ISwan

From: ECullen

Sent: February 14th 12:23PM

Subject: RE: Be my Valentine? Ten and a half weeks to go...

Hey,

I know you're busy, Bella, but after two weeks and speaking to you on the phone just three times, I'm even more of a grumpy fucker.

I don't think you're interfering. I'll think about it.

I'm glad you like the pictures.

And the answer to your question is: of course.

Edward x

Sent from my iPhone

Not even a minute after I send the email, my cell starts to ring. From my place on the sofa, I stare at the screen and hold my breath. Bella. I glance over at Shortcake as she snoozes on her play mat. I turn the TV to mute.

"Hey," I say quietly after I answer the call.

"Edward," she replies on a long breath. "Are you okay?"

I sigh and rub my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "Yeah," I answer even though it's a lie. "What's up? I thought you were busy."

"I'm on lunch. I thought I'd give you a call before my meeting." She pauses. "Your email was . . . brief."

I lick my lips. "I'm sorry," I whisper. I close my eyes and lean my head back. It's heavy and packed with too many thoughts and feelings. "I—I didn't know what to say."

There's so much I want to say. I simply can't put it all in order. Since she left, my brain doesn't switch off. I'm exhausted. Mainly because I haven't been sleeping. I think about her constantly. I think about what will happen when she comes back. I think about what I'm going to do with my life once we're together. I'm terrified about Bella and I being an _us_. I want it. I want it so fucking badly, but an inexplicable fear suffocates me.

"Are you mad that I spoke to Caius about you?"

"No," I reply honestly. "I was flattered that you thought of me at all."

"Edward." She sighs. "God. I think of you constantly."

Her words bring with them a curl of want in my chest but also a headache at my temple.

"What's happened?" she asks quietly. I hear a sound in the background I can only assume is her foot tapping on the floor. I've seen her do this before. She does it when she's anxious about something. I close my eyes and imagine her biting her lip. I love it when she does that. "Edward, are you—do you still want this?"

My eyes snap open. "Of course, Bella," I assure her. "Christ, I want nothing more." The ache moves from my temple to my forehead.

"Okay. Good." The relief in her voice is loud and clear, and I feel like an asshole.

"I'm just . . . I don't know." The words are pathetic and offer no comfort, but they're all I have. "I miss you, you know."

"I miss you, too." Her voice becomes low, seductive. "I'm coming back. I told you I'm coming back to you if you'll have me."

"I want every part you'll give me," I whisper. I rub my face. "My head is just up my ass. Officially. But it has nothing to do with us. I promise. That's the only thing I _am_ clear about."

"You're still worried about Eclipse." She doesn't say it as a question, reaffirming the fact that she knows me better than I know myself. I grunt an affirmative. "Don't be. You have so many gifts, Edward. You need to believe in yourself."

The heat in my chest grows. "I know."

She hums softly, and I close my eyes again, letting it resonate. "Have you spoken to your sister or Mama Esme?" she asks carefully. "Maybe speak to Carlisle or Jasper. You're not alone in whatever decision you're trying to make. There are people around you who love you."

I smile. "Yeah."

There is a heavy pause. "Promise me you'll speak to one of them."

"Okay," I promise. "I will."

"Good." The smile that lightens her voice is beautiful. I hear a faint knock. "Shit. Edward, I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"No problem," I reply, even though my stomach turns. "Go kick some ass."

She laughs. "I'll speak to you soon. Happy Valentine's."

I sigh, wanting nothing more than to hold her closely while berating myself for not thinking to send her flowers or something. I pray that my words are enough. "Happy Valentine's, Bella."

=DitD=

"So talk," Jasper instructs from opposite me before he throws a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

The restaurant we're in—a bar a grill that Jasper loves—is busy for a Thursday evening. I like it. The bustling atmosphere drowns out the silence that has begun to reside in my head since Bella left.

I sip my beer and watch Alice next to him as she coos at Shortcake in her arms. James and William sit next to me eating a small portion of French fries that we ordered for the table. They kick their small feet against the bench we're sitting on. I steal a fry from James and grin at him when he nudges his shoulder into my ribs.

Keeping my stare on the table, I take a huge breath. "I've decided to leave Eclipse."

Alice's head snaps up, and Jasper's hand freezes over the bowl of dry roasted delights. If I weren't so petrified, I'd laugh.

My sister speaks first. "Really? Like . . . you're actually leaving?"

I shrug and nod.

"Why?" Jasper asks, garnering a curious glance from his wife. "I mean, if it's what you want then it's a good thing, right?" he says to clarify his question, then adds, "But why now?"

I exhale and wait for the server to place our meals in front of us, which she does with a flourish and a small wink in my direction. I smirk and shake my head as she leaves.

"It's time," I answer Jasper while sprinkling salt on my dinner. "I need to get out of there." I look pointedly at my daughter. "She deserves more than a father who takes his clothes off for a living."

Alice frowns. "But you've always been proud about what you do."

I grimace before I start helping James cut up his burger into child friendly pieces. "I've never been ashamed about stripping," I tell them honestly. "I still don't feel ashamed. I just want . . ." I trail off, unable to explain and not really wanting to, and steal another fry, this time from William.

He narrows his eyes at me playfully. "Thief."

"Has Isabella said something to you about Eclipse?" Alice's voice is protective, and her eyes flash with sisterly loyalty.

I smile, handing James his silverware and move his plate closer to him. "No. The opposite. She says she's not bothered by what I do."

"But you are?" Jasper asks.

I exhale heavily. "Both Bella and Shortcake deserve more from me. Whether they care about what I do at Eclipse or not, I want to make them proud. I can't do that there." I grab two onion rings and throw them into my mouth.

Alice trails a fingertip down Shortcake's face. "So what are you going to do?"

I sit back and dab my mouth with my napkin. "That's what I need to ask you." I look at Jasper as he tears open a packet of ketchup for his youngest son. "I was wondering if you had any spare hours at the site. I'll do anything. Just until I hear back from Caius."

"Caius?"

I nod. "Bella's art gallery friend. He called me two days ago after she told him about my work. He wants to have a look at it. He's . . . eager."

I smile to myself as I remember his vivacious personality from the charity event Bella and I attended. Even on the phone, it hadn't lessened any. We spoke for a half hour. Well, he spoke. I simply listened, trying hard to ignore his blatant flirting. Maybe eager is putting it mildly.

"He has this exhibition thing in May," I continue. "He thinks he could sell some of my photographs. If they're good enough."

Being the eternal pessimist, I'm not holding out much hope.

Alice beams. "Coda, that's awesome!"

My face heats with her compliment. "Yeah. I also need to talk to the bank about the dance studio. If the art stuff goes to shit, I want to see how much it would cost to buy it and open it up full time." I catch James' mouth pop open at my curse. I try to appear remorseful by holding out the back of my hand for him to smack, which he does. "Sorry, buddy."

"You know Carlisle would help you," Alice murmurs, bringing my attention back to her. "He's offered before. Talk to him."

"I'll think about it." My stare meets Jasper's. "So could you help me out?"

He smiles. "Sure. No problem."

I sigh in relief. "Cheers, man. I owe you."

Just as I take a mammoth bite from my burger, Shortcake starts to become grizzly and unsettled. Swallowing and smiling wryly, I take her from Alice and smother her tiny face with kisses.

"Hey, baby," I whisper against her head. "What's up? You want a cheeseburger, too?"

James snorts at my side. "Uncle E'ward, baby 'Lisbeth can't have burgers. She's too small."

I stare at him wide-eyed as he shakes his head in disbelief. "You're right, dude," I exclaim. "It's a good thing you're here. Maybe we're better sticking with milk, huh?" He nods in acquiescence.

I grab a bottle from the baby bag at my feet and start to feed my daughter.

I feel Alice's gaze on me and look up. "What?"

She lifts her left shoulder. "I'm so proud of you, big brother."

My throat tightens, and my gaze drops back to Shortcake.

"I mean it," she says softly. "Mom would be, too."

I hold Shortcake a little tighter. "Thanks."

=DitD=

To: ISwan

From: ECullen

Sent: February 20th 11:18AM

Subject: ThankYouThankYouThankYou

Hey,

Caius just left. He thinks my work is "fabulously insightful" and "fucking beautiful." I could have kissed him. Although, he may have enjoyed it more than I would. I think Mama wants to adopt him.

He wants at least five of the pieces for the exhibition as well as five new shots. TEN PIECES! Holy shit! He really thinks they'll sell. He even said that if they do sell, he'd think about having me as a regular in the gallery. Alice and Mama are squealing as we speak. I think Shortcake thinks we've all gone mad.

I can't thank you enough, Bella.

I wish you were here so I could kiss the shit out of _you_.

Truthfully, I probably wouldn't stop at just a kiss . . .

God, I miss you.

Hurry back to me.

Edward x

Sent from my iPhone

=DitD=

To: ECullen

From: ISwan

Sent: February 20th 11:47AM

Subject: RE: ThankYouThankYouThankYou

Edward, that's amazing! I knew he'd love your photos. I knew it!

You have no idea how much I wish I was there to share this with you, to kiss you and be with you in every way I've thought about since the day we met.

I need you in ways that scare and excite me.

I'm so happy for you.

Bella x

=DitD=

Emmett sits across from me, glaring over the cigarette dangling from his mouth. "You want out."

I take a deep breath and nod. I haven't spoken for the five minutes I've been in his office, and yet he knows why I'm here. It's two hours before my set tonight. I'm never here two hours before my set.

"I knew it," he murmurs before throwing his smoke in the ashtray on his desk. "I fucking knew it."

I frown and pull uncomfortably at the collar of my Led Zeppelin t-shirt. "What did you know?"

"The minute you found out you had a kid. I knew this would happen eventually." He rolls his eyes.

I bite back the venomous retort that sneaks up my throat when I hear his snarling tone. "It's not just Shortcake," I explain. I shrug. "This place just doesn't feel like home anymore, man."

Emmett's eyes narrow. "You're too good for it."

"Fuck off," I snap. "You know that's not true."

Emmett's stare drops indignantly. We sit in awkward silence before he glances at the numerous photographs on the office walls. There's one of us-two young dickheads with the stripping world at their feet. A minute smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"No, Coda." He sighs. "You _are_ too good for this shit." His voice is softer when he meets my gaze. "You always were. And it's good that you want more. I respect that."

Well, shit . . .

"Em," I begin, but he waves me off, lighting another cigarette. "Look, I'll always be grateful to you, man. You've done so much for me." I sit forward, catching his eye with a dip of my chin. "Whenever you need me, I'll be there."

He nods and fingers the hem of his wife beater. "When?"

"Easter. I'll stay for the Spring Break weekend. Then I'm . . . done." The words echo around me, leaving me simultaneously excited and scared to death.

"And your cut in Eclipse?" He cocks an eyebrow.

Business Emmett front and centre.

"Will remain until you sell the club. That was always the promise, Emmett. I'm a man of my word."

His smile then is more genuine. "I know." He sits forward and flicks the ash of his smoke into the ashtray. "It's your boys' dance competition this week, huh?"

I run a nervous hand through my hair. "Yeah. Tomorrow." I snort, remembering Jake's insistence that I'm a 'ball busting motherfucker'. "We've been practising like crazy. They've worked so hard."

"They'll do great." He smirks. "You worried?"

"Terrified."

Emmett laughs, and I find myself joining in. The levity of the situation is a welcome relief from the heavy weight of missing Bella, of making this huge decision. As the room grows quiet again, I lick my lips and exhale uncomfortably.

"So," I hedge. "Do we hug this shit out?"

He coughs a laugh and kicks his feet up onto his desk. "Get the fuck out of my office, Coda."

=DitD=

"We fucking won!"

I jump on the spot in excitement, glad only Shortcake can see me from her seat on the sofa.

"That's awesome!" Bella replies. She laughs. "I knew the boys would do you proud. You worked them hard enough."

"Jesus, Bella, they were amazing," I say. "Quil even managed to get his backward flip to spin. He's been getting it wrong over and over. I couldn't be more fucking proud."

She laughs again.

"The judges went batshit over the routine. Not that I fucking blame them. The boys killed it! The head judge mentioned coming to the studio to check it out."

"Incredible."

"I know!" I can't stop moving I'm so hyped with adrenaline. "We're going out to celebrate, but I had to call and tell you. Everything is falling into place. It's such a good feeling."

I bend down and kiss Shortcake. She opens her mouth, seeking out my nose, which she's taken to sucking on whenever she's near my face.

"You sound so happy," Bella says wistfully. "It's wonderful." Her voice is quiet, but I can hear the smile behind it.

I pause and look at the black and white canvas of her and my daughter. I swallow. The familiar ache behind my ribs gives a gentle squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she answers quickly. "I just—I know I'm only here another six weeks, but I—I feel as though I'm missing so much not being there with you."

"Bella," I whisper. I place my hand over my heart and close my eyes. "Baby, you _are_ here with me."

I hear her suck in a breath. "Edward." The syllables shake as she speaks them. "I—I . . ."

"Yeah," I murmur, wrapping my free arm around myself in hopes that it'll hold me together.

"I can't explain it," she adds. I hear her panic. "Really, I can't. Tell me you know what I mean."

"I know," I reply quietly.

Because I do.

I know what she's feeling. I know the words she wants to say because I can taste them at the back of my throat every time I hear her voice. I miss her face and the way her skin feels under my fingers. My head hurts when I think about how quickly I went from hating this woman to wanting her in my life forever.

I think, think, think about her constantly.

I _miss_ her constantly.

I _need_ her constantly.

I know exactly what she means.

"Tell me," she urges. "Please."

I smile. "When you get back here," I promise. "I'll tell you everything. And then, Bella, I'll show you."

**Holy anticipation, Batman!**

**The yearning… Bless.**

**Thanks once again for your patience. I truly appreciate it.**

**Thanks to my beta Purelyamuse, who I adore, despite her weird dislike of wearing a watch in the shower.**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xxx**


	19. Chapter 18

**Dancing in the Dark**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Tonight the moon's looking young but I'm feelin' younger**

**'Neath a veil of dreams sweet blessings rain**

**Honey, I can feel the first breeze of summer**

**And in your love I'm born again**

"Look at you!" I laugh loudly, unable to help myself, as Shortcake pushes her small feet against my thighs. With my hands wrapped around her waist, holding her up, she smiles and bounces as if it's the most awesome thing in the world. And, honestly, it is. Up and down. Knees bending and stretching. Up and down. She stops. Takes a moment. Puts her fist in her mouth—where it now resides ninety per cent of the time—and starts all over again. The power in her chubby little legs is incredible.

She's not sitting up yet, although, she tries so very hard. Mama tells me it's nothing to worry about, but she's five and a half months old now, and the books I've read tell me she should. She was holding her head up at three months, which I thought was impressive. Plus, she's teething like hell. You can clearly see the two tiny edges of her bottom front teeth, desperate to push through.

Whatever. I don't need her sitting up. Seeing her smiling, making adorable noises while she does her baby exercises on my lap is enough.

"My clever, gorgeous girl." I bring her face to my mouth and blow a loud raspberry on her cheek that has her smiling so wide her eyes crease. I do it again because I love seeing her this way, and her smell is lush. I can't help but smother her in kisses. It's like my lips are addicted to her soft, peach skin.

Since becoming a father, I have learned two very surprising things about myself.

One: I need to kiss my daughter at least once an hour (if not more), and I constantly wonder how the hell I lived without them.

Two: I'm a hugger.

I hug Shortcake to my chest and close my eyes when her head snuggles into my neck. Her drool snakes down my skin, but I couldn't care less. Baby drool, I've realised, comes with the territory. I rub my palm up and down her back and smile when she starts to relax against me.

My smile widens when I hear the now familiar sound of Skype bursting to life on my laptop. Keeping Shortcake close, I lean forwards, towards the coffee table where my computer sits, and press the answer button. Bella's face immediately comes onto my screen, and my chest twists excitedly.

"Good afternoon, gorgeous." I smile, adjusting the laptop's angle a little so she can see me clearly.

The smile she throws back is spectacular. "Hey yourself, handsome. And what a beautiful little girl you have there."

I dip my chin, manoeuvring Shortcake so Bella can see her. "Look," I whisper into her tiny ear. "It's Bella." She nuzzles me more and sighs tiredly. "We've been doing our exercises," I explain, cupping the back of my daughter's head. "She's worn out."

Bella's face pinches minutely as she looks at Shortcake. "She's grown so much."

I kiss Shortcake's temple. "She has."

"Yeah." Bella rubs a hand across her forehead and smiles, but it's tight and falls quickly.

I frown. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replies. I cock an eyebrow, and she shakes her head resignedly. "I just miss you guys so much." She twists a piece of stray hair around her index finger. "I've missed so much."

"Nah," I say with a smile, trying to lift Bella's spirits. "She's not sitting up yet. She's saving that just for you."

She grins. "Thanks."

I sigh. "We've missed you, too, Bella." I rub Shortcake's back. "I know she can't say so, but I know she wishes you were back already." I swallow. "I can't wait to have you here."

I secretly hope she understands the hidden message within my words.

She hums seductively. Her eyes close for one brief moment, as though her mind has wandered to the same place as mine. She understands, and my mouth is immediately dry. "Five days," she whispers.

I drop back against the sofa cushions, with Shortcake still against my chest. She wriggles and grabs at the silver chain around my neck. "Five days."

We stare at each other and, even though she's miles away, the atmosphere changes. I'm with her at the charity gala all over again, dancing, wanting to kiss her more than I ever thought possible. I'm in the cab, feeling the skin of her thigh in my hand.

A knowing smile pulls at the edge of her mouth. "What're you thinking about over there?"

"You," I answer. I take a deep breath. "I always think of you."

A beautiful pink stains her cheeks. "I think of you, too," she confesses. She laughs and lifts her iPhone. "You're very distracting."

She's referring to the not so clean texts I've been sending her the past couple of weeks. They've not been anything too racy, but my patience has been gradually slipping away. I sent a picture of my chest covered in oil asking if she'd help rub it all over. There was one of me in bed, wishing she were there. Granted, I was nude, but lying on my stomach; she could only see my body's profile. She told me my ass looked biteable. I told her I'd let her test the theory out.

I've also been pretty liberal with the innuendos when we've messaged and emailed one another. In fairness, she's been equally naughty. She's sent me pictures of newly purchased lingerie scattered across her bed, asking what I'd think if she gave me a fashion show, along with a shot of her in the mirror looking over her shoulder blowing me a kiss. I could only see her nakedness to the middle of her back, but it was enough to get me off.

Sue me.

Bella clears her throat, and I focus on her coy expression. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing, I'm . . . I just hope I'm what you imagine."

Carefully, I place a snoozing Shortcake onto the sofa next to me, placing a cushion at her side so she doesn't roll off. I sit forward, closer to my laptop. "Why wouldn't you be?"

Bella shrugs, embarrassed. "I don't know. I want to be everything you need."

I almost snort. "Bella, you _are_ everything I need." I run my hands through my hair and sigh. "I'm not going to lie to you. I want you." I laugh. "I want you badly. I think about us that way a lot. But I'll take whatever you're comfortable giving me. Honestly, just get back to me, and we'll take it from there, yeah?"

I'm desperate for her to understand my intentions. As much as I want to be lost in her, I know she's fragile. She has insecurities. Like me.

She licks her lips and nods. Her face is calmer. She's stunning.

Christ, I need to kiss her.

"Whatever I'm comfortable with, huh?"

"Yes," I say firmly. "I promise. I need only what you want to give me."

Her chocolate coloured eyes pierce the screen of my computer. "What if I want to give you my heart, Edward?"

My breathing stammers as my lungs squeeze. I swallow. "Your heart?"

I think I know what she's telling me, but my brain is having a hard time acknowledging it. Apart from those in my family, no woman has ever said those words to me before. I rub my stomach, which is knotted and suddenly very hot. It's not an overly uncomfortable feeling, but it's alien to me. My skin flushes warm, and my pulse quickens. I've known I care deeply for Bella for a while now. I've embraced it. Enjoyed it. But hearing her offer such a precious thing makes my emotions rush quickly to the surface.

"Is that okay?" she asks timidly.

I can't speak. I simply nod. I'm simultaneously terrified and ecstatic. It's not a declaration as such, but it's enough to have me demanding the next five days hurry the fuck up so I can show her just what her words mean to me.

With the innocent, brave gift of her heart hovering between us, I say the only thing I can fucking think of. The one absolute truth: "God, I miss you."

=DitD=

With Bella's help—she pulled in a few favours with her lawyer friends—I've presented a contract to my uncle, detailing the what's, why's and wherefore's of the dance studio I want to buy.

The same rented dance studio the boys and I have rehearsed in for the past few years. Called EC's, it would cater to beginners, intermediates, all the way to professional dancers who need either a dance space to rehearse or a helping hand with choreography, which Jake and Quil have offered to assist with on their down time.

The business proposal is sound and the contract would ensure that I pay him back the loan within five years of the studio's opening. Despite my being family, I don't blame his prudence. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. He knows I would never dick him about, but he's taking a risk, too.

I nibble the side of my thumb as Carlisle reads my business proposal for the third time. I scratch my cheek and exhale. He goes to turns a page. Then changes his mind. He peruses the same sheet. I'm sure he's driving me crazy just for the sheer fucking joy of it. Sitting like a bad student in the principal's office isn't helping my anxiety.

After a million hours of waiting, Carlisle sits back in his seat and steeples his hands. "It's impressive, Edward."

"Thanks," I reply.

He pauses before waving a hand over the papers. "I'll need my lawyer to have a look over it, of course."

I rub my chin, trying like hell to hide my disappointment. "Of course. Sure."

His hands drop, and he rests his elbows on the desk between us. A small smile lifts his mouth. "It's just a practicality, Edward. I'm absolutely in."

My eyes widen. "You are?"

He nods. "It's an excellent idea. I think it'll be more than successful. You've thought about everything." The air exits my lungs in a giant whoosh. He laughs. "You can relax now."

I chuckle with relief. "Yeah."

His face becomes serious, but his eyes remain soft. "I'm proud of you, Edward. We both are. Me and your Mama."

I drop my gaze from his and focus on the really interesting swirls of the rug under my feet. "Thanks."

"You're making your little girl proud, too."

I smile. "I hope so."

=DitD=

"He's having his lawyer have a look over it tomorrow, but it's pretty much a sure thing." I take a much needed gulp of my beer. It's been a long day and, after being a whiny, grumpy pain in my ass, Shortcake has finally gone down for the night.

Bella laughs. "And you were worried? I knew it'd be okay."

I narrow my eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah, Miss Lawyer-Know-It-All."

She lifts her hands. "I'm just saying. You need to have more faith in yourself. You don't give yourself enough credit."

I lie back on my couch and stare at her, all bright eyes, and flushed face. "You're really back tomorrow?"

She moves closer to the camera on her laptop, filling my screen. "Yes."

I close my eyes. "Jesus." I have no control over the twitch that occurs between my legs. I'm semi hard at the mere thought of her arrival in nineteen hours. God help me when I actually have her back.

"Will you be at the airport?" Her voice is rough, making me tighten the grip on my beer bottle.

"Of course. Where else am I going to be?"

"I was just making sure."

I sit up. "Bella, I have to ask you something."

Her brows knit together in worry. "What is it?"

I run the pad of my thumb across my bottom lip. "When you get off the plane tomorrow and I see you in person for the first time in twelve weeks, I need to know that it's okay to kiss you."

She stays silent, her mouth open like a fish. She looks cute.

"I'm not sure whether I can control myself when I finally have you back," I confess. "But if you're not comfortable with that, I need to know."

I clear my throat of the heavy awkwardness her silence brings. Even though we've kissed and dry humped like teenagers, I'm aware that she may be less at ease with that shit now that we've been apart for so long.

"Is it?" I ask, unable to hide the hope in my voice. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"Edward." The spark of lust in her stare makes all the blood in my body hightail it south. I get harder when I see her small, pink tongue push against her front teeth. "If you don't kiss me when I see you tomorrow," she whispers, "I'll kick your ass."

=DitD=

"Calm down," Alice sighs, putting Shortcake in her coat while I flit around them like a fucking maniac.

She's right. I should calm down, but I can't. My head is up my ass. I'm nervous, excited, and can't seem to stay still for longer than five seconds. I look at my watch again. Bella'll be landing in fifty minutes.

Fifty minutes.

_Holy shit._

I run my hands through my hair and look around my apartment, making sure everything is clean and tidy. Alice has been a lifesaver. She's OCD crazy. I've never seen my apartment sparkle this much. I know it's pretty fucking presumptuous of me to assume Bella wants to come back here, but I wanted to make an effort just in case. With that in mind, I look down at myself. My black v-neck t-shirt suddenly looks scruffy, and my dark blue jeans seem inappropriate, too casual.

"I should change," I say quickly. I make to head for my bedroom, but Alice's tiny hand on my arm stops me.

"Coda," she exclaims. "Sweet Jesus, man. Stop."

I point towards the corridor. "But I—"

"No," she says firmly. Shortcake blows a loud fart noise through her mouth, breaking my deer-caught-in-headlights expression. I look at her on the sofa, and she grins, all gums, and drool. She's gorgeous.

Even my daughter is laughing at me. I exhale and drop my chin to my chest. Alice's voice softens.

"I know you're freaking out," she says. "I get it, and it's kind of adorable. But everything will be fine. You love Bella, and she loves you, and you'll live happily ever after."

I open my mouth to shoot her down, to tell her she's talking bullshit, but she places her hand over it, stopping me. I narrow my eyes. She grins.

"Deep breaths, brother." She slaps my bicep. "Suck it up."

=DitD=

The drive to the airport is fucking torturous. The traffic keeps coming to a grinding halt every five minutes. I curse and complain, while Shortcake watches me from her carseat with a curious expression. As we wait behind a trail of idling cars in the airport car lot, I glance at her and smirk.

"Your Daddy's losing his mind, kiddo." She smiles beautifully and lifts her fist. I can't help but laugh. I blow her a kiss. "I'm glad I amuse you."

Finally parked and with Shortcake in her stroller, I make a mad dash to the arrivals part of the airport.

Gate 22. Gate 22. Gate 22.

The board flashes: Arrived.

My heart pounds behind my ribs as I try to take a few calming breaths. I steer Shortcake through the crowds, almost kneecapping some asshole jock with a gigantic bag. Sweating, out of breath, and wide-eyed, I stop near Gate 22, standing where I know Bella will see us easily. I crouch down at the side of Shortcake when she starts to grumble. I hand her Sophie the Giraffe, which disappears straight into her mouth. Her gums are really pissing her off.

My head is brought up when I hear the people around me murmur and call out as the passengers of the flight start to appear through the gate. I stand slowly, rubbing my hot palms down my thighs.

Watching.

Waiting.

And then . . .

I see her.

I swallow down the urge to run, to grab her, and never let her go. She pulls at the bag on her shoulder while she looks around, searching for us. I hold my hand up at shoulder height and wave. She glances over. Our eyes lock, and I'm lost. Utterly, completely lost. My chest expands, and blood pounds in my ears. She starts walking towards us, her stare never leaving mine. I couldn't look away if I tried. She's so fucking beautiful.

She stops a foot from me, and my hands itch to reach for her.

"Hello, Mr Cullen," she says softly.

I smirk. "Hello, Miss Swan."

She bites her lip, and I can't stand it any longer.

"Please, come here," I whisper, and she drops her bag to the floor and launches herself into my arms.

Her nose buries itself in my neck while her arms wrap around me so damned tightly. I hold her closely, my hands on her back, my lips in her hair and against the side of her face, before my mouth finds hers, and then I'm kissing her with everything that I have. She gasps when my tongue seeks out hers, and I moan when she grips my hair.

She tastes incredible. Sweet anticipation, mint, and berry ChapStick.

The hunger between us gradually recedes, and our kisses become unhurried and sexy as all hell. I'm suddenly aware that I'm in an airport with a gorgeous woman in my arms and a raging hard-on. I chuckle as I pull back, leaving her lips puckered, and her cheeks flushed.

I cup her face. "Hey, you," I murmur, tucking a wayward hair behind her ear. As always, it's up in an elegant twist.

Bella opens her eyes sleepily and smiles. She wraps her fingers around my wrists. "Hey."

I shake my head in wonder. "Dammit, it's good to see you."

She kisses me softly. "It's good to be seen."

She moves away and crouches at the side of Shortcake's stroller. "My, Miss Shortcake, how you've grown!" She plasters her face with kisses and tickles her sides, eliciting a giggle from my daughter. "You're so beautiful. Look at you." She startles a little. "Is that . . . is that a tooth?" Her large eyes snap to mine in amazement.

I grin and nod. The slice of white poking out from Shortcake's bottom gum is adorable despite it making her bad tempered as fuck.

Shortcake coos and offers Bella her drool soaked giraffe. "No, baby girl," Bella says softly. "You keep that. I have some gifts for you."

Bella looks up. Her soft, content expression makes my stomach tighten in adoration. "She looks so good, Edward. You both do."

"You, too," I reply, letting my gaze slide down her body. And fuck me if that's not the understatement of the century. She looks so good—having caught her flight straight from her final meeting—in her knee length black skirt, heels, and silver silk top. She always looks great, but having not had the pleasure for twelve weeks, she seems even more attractive. Sexier. I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans and try to calm down. The yearning I had for her while she was away has seemingly multiplied, turning me into a ridiculous horny mess.

The left side of Bella's mouth lifts knowingly. She stands leisurely, surely reading my mind, and reaches for my hand, pulling it from my pocket and fitting it perfectly into her palm. "Let's go home."

=DitD=

The rest of the afternoon is as torturous as my drive to pick Bella up. We stop at her place so she can grab a quick shower—which I desperately want to share. She changes into something casual before we head back to my apartment where we find Mama, Alice, and James waiting for us. As nice as it is to see my family getting on so well with Bella, the selfish bastard in me wishes they'd piss off so I can have her all to myself. I'm aching to kiss her again, to hold her, and revel in having her home.

I sit in my living room, wine glass in hand, and watch as Bella plays on the floor with Shortcake. She tells us all about her trip. The business she was working for, as I understand it, was in the middle of a huge merger that started to go ass up. She arrived and saved the day.

"That's awesome," Alice compliments with a smile. Bella blushes, and my desire for her skyrockets. As hot as the sassy side of Bella is, I crave the coy, modest side just as much.

"They asked me to stay on permanently," she says quietly, avoiding my eyes. "In California."

I blanch, nearly choking on my drink. "They did?" She nods slowly, and my heart falls to the soles of my boots. "And . . . what did you say?"

She lifts her head and pins me with a stare that sets my blood on fire. "I told them no."

I swallow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she answers. "I can't be there when everyone I love is here."

I can barely breathe.

=DitD=

Bella is never more than an arm's reach away from Shortcake the entire day. She plays with her all afternoon while Alice and Mama are over and, even when they leave and I think I have a chance at getting near her again, she's playing, laughing, or talking with my daughter.

But how can I be mad?

I watch the two of them as they reacquaint themselves. Bella looks so comfortable. So happy. The standoffish, cold, distant bitch that barrelled into my life, is long gone, leaving a woman so infinitely sensitive and open, she glows.

I lean against the doorjamb while she bathes Shortcake, singing to her and splashing around, making my daughter smile and chuckle more than I've heard since she was born. Bella makes faces, silly noises, and entertains Shortcake endlessly. With each laugh that echoes off the tiled walls of my bathroom my love for both of them grows until I'm barely able to contain the myriad of emotions pummelling my body. I leave them and head to the kitchen to find a take-out menu.

Fuck cooking. It's been a long day.

Bella's t-shirt is soaked from their playing, but she's never looked more blissful. She sits cross-legged on my sofa, cradling a pyjama clad, almond scented Shortcake, feeding her a bottle. I sit next to them, my arm draped across the sofa, and let my finger trail down Bella's cheek. She leans her head back and closes her eyes.

"You okay?" I whisper.

"I'm more than okay." She opens her eyes. "I've missed this so much."

I lean to her, kissing her. "You're here now."

"I know."

"Are you hungry?" She shakes her head. "Tired?"

"No."

I see Shortcake has fallen asleep. I smile. "You've worked your magic."

Bella smiles, too, before she lifts from the sofa and carries Shortcake to the nursery. I kiss my daughter's cheek and follow silently. I wait at the door, my nerves rising through me. I want Bella so much in every way she'll allow me, and I know I need to go slow and not overwhelm her, but I can't help it. I watch as Bella gently places Shortcake into her crib, tucking her in carefully. She switches on the singing mobile and turns to me.

Slowly, she approaches, closes the nursery door, and lifts her hand. Standing looking at one another in the quiet hallway, she places her palm flat against my chest. The heat from her skin is indescribable.

"Wow," she whispers. "Your heart is flying."

"Yeah," I croak.

I know it is. I can feel it over every inch of my body.

"Are you nervous?" she asks.

"Terrified," I admit with a wry smile.

"Me, too."

She takes a tentative step forward, and my breathing hitches when her lips touch my Adam 's apple. My eyes roll closed when the tip of her tongue circles it. Once. Twice. _Fuck._ My hands clench even though I want nothing more than to take hold of her. Her nose travels leisurely along my jaw, and my knees immediately become unsteady. I reach out a hand to the wall in an effort to keep upright. "Jesus."

"You smell so good," she murmurs. The tips of her fingers dance across the hair at the nape of my neck, bringing a deep sigh from my chest.

"Bella." Her name slips from my mouth before I can even comprehend the need to say it. "Please." She's killing me in the most delicious fucking way.

Her lips are now at my ear lobe. "What, Edward? What do you need? Anything."

"Please," I say again, turning my head so we're nose to nose. I open my eyes. "Let me be inside of you."

She groans and leans her forehead against my chin. "Oh, God. Yes."

Before she even finishes replying, my hand is at the back of her head, pulling her mouth to mine. These kisses are more aggressive, hungrier. I stumble back against the wall, clutching her to me, as our lips smack together. Our teeth clink, and our tongues dance, and Bella's hands are fucking everywhere. I grip her hips, pushing mine against her, making sure she can feel how hard I am.

I'm so fucking hard.

I ache.

"Bedroom," I grunt when her teeth begin to nibble my bottom lip. "Shit."

Not stopping for breath, I grab her hand and lead her down the hall to my room. Leaving her at the doorway, I switch on the bedside light and bring the baby monitor from my back jean's pocket. I place it on the side table, praying to Holy God, Our Lady, and all the Apostles that Shortcake sleeps through the night.

_Please, sweet-dimpled-swaddled-baby-Jesus may she sleep through the night._

In the dimly lit room and five feet away from Bella, I'm able to think a little clearer. Within seconds, the nerves begin to increase again. She smiles shyly as her gaze flits from me to my bed and back again. Her hands fist at her stomach and my throat is suddenly very dry.

"Shall I close the door?" she asks, and I nod.

The sound of the door clicking shut reverberates through me, and an anxious laugh erupts from my throat. I push my hands through my hair and take a deep breath. "I'm sorry," I utter.

"Whatever for?"

I shake my head and gesture to the room and myself with a weak wave of my hand. I've had women in my apartment before, in my bed, but I've never felt so damned tense.

"This. Me," I clarify. "I'm a mess."

Bella cocks her head to the side, staring at me in a way that sets my skin on fire. "No," she counters. "You're fucking beautiful."

I blink drowsily as her words wash over me, making my heart stammer. "Baby. Come here."

When she's standing in front of me, I place my hands at the hem of her t-shirt. Understanding my intent, she lifts her arms, and I pull it up from her body. Her bra is pink and understatedly sexy. I drop the shirt to the floor as her hands do the same to me. I smile as she pushes my t-shirt up. She's a foot smaller than I am, so I help her when her hands can't push anymore. She giggles when I'm free of it and licks her lips as she looks at my chest. I swallow when her index finger traces the black tribal ink that snakes over from my back to my ribs.

"I remember this from when I saw you at the club. What does it mean?"

I snort. "That I was eighteen and stupid."

She smiles. "It's sexy as hell."

"So's this," I murmur, fingering the edge of her lacy bra cup.

Her fingers find the buttons of my fly. I hiss when she applies pressure against my cock. I dip my head and place several soft kisses across her delicate collarbone. She pops each button achingly slowly until my jeans hang open. As our eyes meet, she pushes them over my hips until they fall, gathering at my ankles. I step out of them; thankful I took my boots off earlier, and reach for her jeans. Her hands on mine instantly bring me out of my lusty fog.

"You okay?" I ask with a furrowed brow.

She tries to smile but fails. She swallows and shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

I bend my knees a little, trying to meet her gaze. "Bella?"

She bites her lip. "Remember I told you about . . . the car accident?"

"Of course."

She grimaces and closes her eyes briefly. "I have scars, Edward." She looks up. I've never seen her so sad. "They're . . . all here." She gestures to her stomach and her thighs. "Where I was trapped. Where I had surgeries." She releases a shuddering breath that makes my heart twinge. "They're not pretty."

I think back to when I saw her in her panties the night she got shitfaced at the club. I was so entranced by her, I hadn't even noticed. My index finger and thumb find her chin, lifting her head up.

"What did I tell you about scars?"

"I know, but—"

"What did I say, Bella?"

She pauses, her eyes glimmering with tears. "That they show how strong I am. That they show I survived."

I nod. "That's right."

Without another word, I reach for the clip in her hair and open it. I hold my breath as her locks fall spectacularly down her shoulders and her back. Chocolate brown, ochre, and auburn waves frame her face.

"You take my breath away," I tell her.

Carefully, I run my fingers through her hair. It's so damned soft. She sighs and moans quietly when I gently massage her scalp. I can feel the ridges of scarred flesh under my fingers, and I kiss her because there's nothing else I want more. Her grip on my waist tightens as she discovers my mouth with hers.

Her lips scramble me and turn me inside out, leaving me feeling powerless and powerful all at the same time. My hands are on her jeans again and, this time, she doesn't stop me. With my lips firmly attached to hers, I push them down and place my hands on the small of her back as she kicks the denim from her ankles.

I pull back, breathless. "Lie on the bed."

She does as I ask. I watch entranced as she crawls onto my bed and lies in the middle of it, naked but for her bra and panties. I keep my eyes fixed on her face as I push my underwear off. Her gaze sears my flesh as it travels down the length of my body. My cock twitches under her scrutiny.

"Look at you. My God." She reaches for me. "You're too far away."

I smile at her adorable grabby hands and lift my knee onto the bed. I kneel at the side of her, kissing her again. I touch her breast and squeeze. She arches, and her nipple hardens in my palm.

"Take it off," I tell her. "I want to feel you."

She unclips her bra and throws it dismissively to the side of the bed. Before her back returns to the bed, I have her nipple in my mouth. I suck and circle it with my tongue, humming into her soft, supple flesh as she grips my hair.

"Yes." She pants. "Yes, Edward."

I move to the other, doing the same, wondering if it's at all possible to come simply from having her in my mouth. I release her with a grunt, kiss her hard, and pull her leg to the side, moving between her thighs. Jesus, she's burning. I can feel her heat against my stomach as I place my hands at either side of her waist and kiss my way down her throat, along the valley between her glorious tits, to her stomach.

She tenses the lower I get, and I glance up. She worries her lip with her teeth.

"It's okay," I whisper. "It's just me."

She nods and clutches the duvet beneath her. I look at her stomach for the first time and see white and red jagged lines of scarred tissue that stretch from her belly button and disappear into her panties. They cover her right hip and, sure enough, peek out from her underwear onto the very tops of her thighs. Some of the skin is raised and angry looking, some are beautiful pale webs, mapping her recovery, her survival, her journey.

My fingers trace them.

"Perfect," I whisper. I place a gentle kiss on the largest one. The reddest one that makes my stomach flip when I think about how much pain she went through. "My beautiful, brave girl."

"Jesus, Edward," she groans when my tongue slides across the gentle ridges that cover her. "Make love to me, please."

I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties and pull them down. She lifts her legs, helping me pull them off. I throw them to the side and take her in from head to toe.

"Fuck," I gasp when I eventually touch the outside of her bare pussy and feel how much she wants me. She flinches and grabs for my shoulder. "Now?" I ask carefully as she pulls me down.

I have so much planned. I want to taste her, to finger her, to play with her body until she can't take anymore. To feast and explore. To conquer and devour. I want to make her come in every way I know how and then learn all the new ways she can teach me.

But the expression of want and desperation on her face has me pausing.

"I've waited so long for you," she whimpers. "Please, don't make me wait any longer."

"Sweetheart." I crawl up her body and kiss her deeply, slowly, telling her that I've waited just as long, that I need her just as much. Her hands are almost frantic on me, and I reach for her wrists in an effort to calm her. "I'm here." I kiss her cheek, slowing her down. "Let me love you."

"I do," she gasps. "Edward, I do—I . . ."

I rub my nose against the side of hers. "I know, baby."

I reach for my bedside drawer and pull out a condom. I kneel up, rip the packet open, and begin to put it on. Bella watches and moans as I slide the latex down my cock. Once done, I lie over her, letting my weight press against her, knowing from her grip on me that it's what she wants. I touch her pussy. She's wet and the pad of my thumb slides across her swollen clit deliciously. She cries out, and I grip myself, pushing gently against where we both need.

"Are you ready for me?" I ask, making sure, wanting her to be okay.

"My whole life."

With my forehead resting on hers and our laboured breaths mixing in the minute space between us, I begin to push into her.

"Christ," I grit out, wanting to slam home, as her body starts to take me in. It's snug and every nerve ending in my body comes alive. "God_damn_."

Bella bends her knees and places the heels of her feet on my ass, urging me forward. "More."

Unable to wait or ignore Bella's encouragement, I snap my hips forward, making us both cry out.

_Holy shit._

Buried in her, deep, wet and hot, I can't catch my breath. I fit in her body as if she was made just for me. Pleasure shoots up my spine and my eyes squeeze shut. The sensation of falling grips me, closing my throat and constricting my lungs. I open my mouth, but struggle to speak. "I—I'm . . ."

Bella places her hand on my face and kisses me. "I know. Move in me," she whispers.

I pull back as slowly as I can, groaning as her body refuses to let me go, gripping me. "Fuck." I push back in and I'm hers completely.

As if there was any doubt.

I gradually find a rhythm. I rock into her, grunting while she grips my hair, my shoulders, my hips, my ass, telling me yes, more, perfect. And yes it is.

Yes. _Yes_.

She moves with me, sexy and eager. And I kiss her. Lord help me, I can't stop kissing her. I push my arms under her, anchoring myself. Her knee bumps my armpit and I sink deeper into her.

I growl and curse into her neck and fall further.

I fall and I fall and I don't care.

I shift my hips, hitting her higher and Bella starts to pant. "Oh, God."

"There?" I ask, licking her throat. "Right there?"

She scratches my shoulder. "Harder."

I do as she asks, and catch her gasp between my lips, as my hips start to pump quicker. The sound of my skin slapping against hers is incredible. I've imagined, thought, and dreamed about this moment a hundred and one times, but never did I contemplate that it would be as incredible as this.

I lift myself onto my knuckles, pushing her thighs further back with my body, moving faster. She moans my name and I'm in heaven.

"Get there," I plead. My balls tighten and my cock twitches. It's been too long and I'm going to come too fast. "Oh, fuck."

I grit my teeth and try to hold off my orgasm. Bella writhes under me, glorious and seemingly oblivious to just how fucking perfect she looks riding me. I lean over and capture her breast in my mouth as it bounces. Her tits are truly resplendent. She bucks under me, erratic and fervent and I hope beyond hope that she's close.

"Edward, I'm—"

"Fuck yes," I grunt feeling her start to clench. "Come on."

I moan in frustration. I can't get close enough.

I hold her hips. "God. I can feel it. All over me, baby, come on," I beg.

At my words, her mouth drops open. She grabs my biceps, leans her head back—her throat perfectly extended—and screams out my name at the same time that she explodes around me. I hammer my hips hard, making it last, wanting it to last forever, because nothing has ever looked as magnificent as Bella coming on my cock.

Sweat drips from my chin to her chest before I come, come, come _so_ fucking hard, I can't see.

Waves of euphoria crash over and through me, leaving me incoherent.

I shout out a barrage of gibberish, telling her I love her, I need her, that I missed her so much it hurt. It hurt every fucking day.

I tell her that nothing has ever felt as good as this. As us.

And it hasn't.

_Ever._

I pulse, twitch, collapse, and breathe as best as I can. "Jesus," I croak. "Jesus."

My sweat soaked cheek slides against her shoulder and I wonder what the fuck I was thinking having meaningless sex for so long. This is not meaningless. This is everything. This is connecting with another person in a way I didn't even know existed. I want this always. I want Bella always.

How the fuck did I live so long without her?

Her fingers play with my hair, bringing the urge to sleep that much quicker. I need to move, to clean up, as I would do ordinarily. But nothing about this is ordinary. Her warmth under me, around me, is paralysing. I'm a slave to her.

Madly, deeply.

"You alright?" I ask, my words muffled by her skin.

I realise quickly that the nuzzle factor of having my face in the crook of her neck is awesome. I move closer. I taste the sweet tang of her sweat against my lips and immediately wonder if she will taste the same between her legs.

"More than alright," she replies, chasing away my lascivious thoughts. "You?"

I smile. "Amazing. You're amazing."

It's the truth. I'm spent in every way. I rub my palm up her calf and along the thigh that is still wrapped around my hip. "Promise me we'll do that again. Lots."

She laughs and I hiss when she tightens around me. "I promise."

I nuzzle closer.

"Edward?"

"Bella?"

"Did you mean it?"

My heart pounds in reply. I know what she's asking. I know what she's referring to because the three little words I yelled out are still echoing around my bedroom. I lift my head and meet her heartbreakingly wary eyes, knowing that there is only one answer. I touch the tip of her nose with my finger and take the biggest of breaths.

"On Shortcake's life" I whisper. "I meant it."

She kisses me. "Good." She holds me close. "Because I love you, too."

***peeks out from behind sofa***

**Holy fluffy lemons and I love yous, Batman!**

**I hope it was worth the wait.**

**Your patience, as always, is much appreciated.**

**Thanks to my beta Purelyamuse who tries to keep me on the comma straight and narrow.**

**(Any errors are mine!)**

**Follow me on Twitter: sophiejax**

**TTFN xx**


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